The Artifact

by W. Michael Gear

  “I need you, Sol. This mission—”

  Desperate, he interrupted. “The tech was just here. Read his—”

  “I have.” Kraal cocked his head, eyelids dropping wearily. He ran age-spotted fingers down the fine fabric of his trousers, knotting the material as he kneaded it. “He claims you’re a broken man.”

  Broken . . . The pain shot up from deep inside. Gage?

  ##Oh, God, how could I take the risk? How could I chance losing another ship? More lives?

  “Sol?” Kraal shifted, wincing at some internal pain. “If you can’t take this, I understand. I’ll have to do it myself, that’s simply the way it—”

  “You would . . .”He stared, mouth open.

  The old man nodded, “Yes. Too much hangs in the balance this time. Not even I am exempt from this last desperate chance to save our civilization. What’s one old man’s life compared to—”

  “Wh-What is it? Tell me what you’re after. What is this mission?” He swallowed dryly, hating himself for asking, a kindred desperation twining through his guts. He’s got me . . . and he knows it. I ought to hate him for this. I ought to despise him for putting it like that. But then, knowing people . . . using them . . . has always been Kraal’s particular genius.

  Kraal rubbed his tired face, the light emphasizing the bags under his eyes. “Quite honestly, perhaps the end of life as we know it. Sol, I wasn’t joking. If I have to, I’ll take this command. The Confederacy is bursting at the seams. The Sirians are moving to establish a coalition to sever us from our longtime allies. Arpeggio is gaining power and prestige among certain Confederate power blocs. All of human civilization is exploding into turbulence. We’ve just about reached the climax. Our social statisticians are predicting some sort of detonation within the next fifty years. The task I’m asking you to undertake may prolong our ability to keep the lid on. Give us the time to—”

  “And what would my duties be?”

  Kraal peered at him slightly hesitantly. “I need you to take a Confederate delegation to Star’s Rest, a planet out beyond the borders. That’s why you came to mind, Sol. You know deep space better than anyone. These delegates . . . well, they may have to decide the future of humanity out there. Whether we’ll be slaves ... or free. For the moment, your responsibilities won’t go beyond getting them out to Star’s Rest . . . and back.”

  “And the ship I’d be commanding?”

  “Our newest. We call her Boaz.”

  Sol nodded. “An old name ... a worthy name. And all I have to do is shepherd these delegates out and back? That’s it?”

  “And keep them safe.”

  “You’re not telling me everything.”

  Kraal’s expression remained firm. “Of course not. There are security reasons ... in addition to the fact that you haven’t agreed to go. For another thing, you’ve resigned from the Brotherhood Fleet. You haven’t sworn oath. And, to be honest, Sol, even if you had, I still wouldn’t tell you everything. If you can find out on your own, fine. But in the meantime, the less you know, the better for everyone. You’re no stumbling novice, you know the ropes.”

  Brazen old . . . But then, he always has been.

  “One trip?”

  “That’s all I ask. I’m not one to plead, Sol, but if it would help, I’d-”

  “One trip.”

  The old man sighed and seemed to deflate with relief.

  “Aren’t you going to say I won’t regret it?” Sol raised a skeptical eyebrow. And if I refused . . . turned you down. I’d regret it for the rest of my life. Yes, that’s the irony, isn’t it? Damned if I do . . . damned if I don’t. And the ghosts o/Gage, of Pete and Linda, Mbazi, Maybry, and the others haven’t even been laid to rest yet.

  Kraal blinked, running a pink tongue along his brown lips. “No, Solomon. I’ve never lied to you. I never will. Part of my Brotherhood obligations—if you’ll recall from your degree work. I don’t know if you’ll regret it or not. It’s dangerous. I won’t play games with you about it. I can only thank you for accepting this one last time.”

  “And my crew?”

  “Every member of your old command has already spaced on Boaz. Happy is in charge of engineering. Cal Fujiki, weapons and shielding. Misha in stores and auxiliary equipment.”

  “And the First Officers?”

  “New people. Arturian and Bryana. Both have out-standing records for insystem.” He smiled wryly. “I think they have a great deal of potential. I’d thought to send them out with Petran. You, I think, would do even better with them.”

  “Green First Officers on a mission like this?” Sol cocked his head. “A mission you would have taken yourself? Somehow, I’m beginning to doubt, Worshipful Sir. Your very presence would have biased any negotiations.”

  Kraal stared back, deadpan. “Then I would have biased negotiations. Look beyond, Solomon. I take risks with people I have faith in. Arturian and Bryana have that spark. You might be able to hone it into brilliance.”

  “You say Boaz has already spaced?”

  Kraal nodded. “I wasn’t sure you could physically take the command. I needed to have that final check on your health. Make sure there were no complications.”

  “And my mind? I’m sure you have an idea about . . . about. . . how ...” Sol bit his lip and turned away, looking longingly at the twirling F2 binaries on the holo.

  “I think, Sol, that you’re too good an officer to waste. Besides, the matter is somewhat irregular. Archon, Speaker of Star’s Rest—your final destination— specifically asked for you. I saw it as an opportunity to con you into taking a command again.” Kraal smiled blandly at Sol’s scowl. “Oh, you would have eventually, Solomon. Right now, you’re hurting, grieving—but deep space has you addicted.”

  “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

  “Maybe. Whether I do or don’t, the Speaker and his daughter are most special people and any request they make must be given serious consideration. I’ll give you additional instructions when you get aboard. In the meanwhile, time is of the essence. How soon can you be packed?”

  “How soon do you need me?”

  “A Fast Transport is waiting in orbit. Would ten minutes be long enough?”

  Sol stared back, soul cringing, the memory of a dark silent ship leaking atmosphere across the light jump fresh in his mind.

  Oh, Gage, I swore I’d never space again. God help me, will I kill Boaz, too?

  CHAPTER IV

  Archon watched the huge ship being towed in from the electro-magnetic rings which had slowed her final approach to Arcturus. His sharp eyes missed nothing as the tugs flitted around, heading her toward the docks like a swarm of furious bees.

  “I don’t think this was a good idea, Father.”

  “I wanted to see her, Connie. Besides, the Patrol keeps this area secured. We’ve got two Brotherhood agents in the hall. What could-”

  “You’re in Arcturus ... the serpent’s lair.” She shook her head, anxiously staring at the approaching ship. “This obsession of yours just baffles me. I can’t help but believe we’d have been better off if we’d taken Dancer, loaded the thing, and spaced for the middle of nowhere to kick it out the—”

  “No!” Gray eyes burned into hers. “You saw! You know what it means? Think of the things humankind can learn! There’s no telling the quantum leaps our understanding of—”

  “And you know what I think!” She stiffened, flaring with anger as she met his impassioned gaze. “The last of his kind. The final victor. Once, they burned the bearers of plague alive.”

  He turned away, craggy features drawn down into a frown. Slowly he shook his head. “Trust Kraal. He’ll make the best of it. We’ve done the right thing.”

  She sighed, turning back to look at the white ship. “For the moment . . . perhaps.”

  They waited in a port observation booth high over the dock. One entire wall of the room consisted of impact resistant transparent plastic. Comm consoles and grav-chairs lined the sides. Behind t
hem, the heavy pressure door doubled as security and decompression control. The view stifled Connie’s breath; Arcturus spread out to either side, bathed in the gaudy red light of the star that glowed like a bloody orb. The huge tubes of the station awed her with the immense power of humanity. Even here, the scope and inspiring size couldn’t be accepted as real.

  Archon had eyes only for the ship. “She’s beautiful.”

  Boaz appeared as a long white torpedo shape flowing out of an ogived nose. Along either side, swells from the power and gun decks ran two thirds the length of the hull. Raised dorsal and ventral sails bore comm and navigational gear along with the main shield generators for defense and the light-jump stasis. In all, he estimated her length at little more than a kilometer with a beam of two hundred meters.

  “My God, Connie. Look at the size of the reaction tubes. What kind of power does she have?”

  “I can’t tell you. Not yet anyway. But I did manage to pry a little information loose before Kraal crammed us into the Fast Transport from Frontier. She’s the latest thing out of the Brotherhood shipyards. The systems were to be tested while they spaced. Since they’re here, I guess we can assume they worked. A lot of pride and innovation went into her. And there’s something else I couldn’t weasel out of anyone . . . something about the ship’s brain. People were too secretive, enough to make me think there’s something special. When I asked Kraal specifically, he smiled cunningly and told me, ‘All things in their time, Constance.’ ”

  “What I’d give . . .”

  She elbowed him. “Ready to go back to the old ways? Mercenary for hire? Always spacing from one job to another?”

  Archon tore his gaze from the huge ship to scrutinize his daughter. Devilment danced in her eyes while red hair rippled down her back. So much of her mother echoed in that perfectly formed face, firm jaw, and deep blue eyes. Her body—all one hundred and fifty centimeters of it—practically hummed with vitality.

  “No. I told you, I’m through with that. You know, girl, you never cease to amaze me. Where did you learn all that about Boaz?”

  She lifted a shoulder absently, sending a wave through the tumbled red-gold of her hair. “While you and Master Kraal played politics, I worked on the chief engineer, Happy Anderson. I think you’ll like him. Despite his Brotherhood affiliation, he’s a privateer at heart. No, Father, Kraal—despite all our misgivings—has taken us very seriously.”

  “Sounds as if you like him.”

  She shrugged. “You know, I do. He and I had a couple of long talks. Not just about the artifact, but about humanity . . . and where it’s going. We talked about philosophy and morality and ethics and the current unraveling of the Confederacy. You know, Kraal gives it no more than fifty years. After that, he says there’s no going back—and only the most extreme measures can return humanity to what he calls artificially induced tyranny.”

  “And that is?”

  “That atavistic human dependence on governmental authority.”

  “Dependence?” Archon cocked an eyebrow. “Government is a necessary—”

  “Not according to Kraal.” She placed a finger to one side of her mouth as she thought. “He compares the present human expansion into space with hunter-gatherer social organization. Government only developed as a means of redistribution of resources once agriculture produced a reliable food surplus. Then metal procurement and manufacturing solidified the role. Kraal takes the position that planets and stations—being closed systems themselves—will continue to maintain centralized governments. On the other hand, as the open resource base of space grows, the only way it can be controlled is artificially—through knowledge and communication. As if, you might say, through the perpetuation of the myth.”

  “And the Sirians have cornered the market on the manufacture of subspace transduction.”

  “Precisely. Kraal says another fifty years and not even that can contain humanity. This time, the fences of the Gulag will have to be inside the human mind.”

  “An interesting man, this Kraal. I get the feeling you do trust him.” He chuckled. “Unlike Palmiere?”

  “I thought you were the one who gambled on the souls of men?”

  Archon laughed. “I do. And I’d bet Palmiere would slit our throats quicker than a laser could cut through black wax. From the first moment, I disliked him.”

  “And he knows what we have.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “A mistake to have told him. I can feel it.”

  “Once he had wind of our business, how could we exclude him? The man’s the President of the Confederacy, elected by the people to see to the health and well-being of humanity. I think ... I hope Kraal knows what he’s doing.” Archon pinched his lips together.

  “And he recommended against Carrasco. Remember that.”

  “We don’t know that Kraal has managed to talk him into taking command.”

  “Second thoughts?”

  “No. I know men. I ... That day . . . You had to be there, I suppose.”

  Connie looked up at him, arms crossed, one eyebrow lifted skeptically. “I was.”

  A ghost of a smile hovered at the corners of Archon’s mouth. “Well, at least Kraal took us seriously. Back on Star’s Rest, you didn’t think he’d go that far.”

  “That was before I suggested you bring him the alien’s body.” Constance shivered involuntarily. “I never liked corpses—let alone that one. I always felt as if there were some presence about it—as if it were watching, warning.”

  Archon shifted uneasily. “I always felt ghosts when that thing . . . Well, it’s over. I found the Master. Told him.”

  “What?”

  He remained silent, absently eyeing the stately white ship swinging toward the dock. Brilliant spots illuminated her shining sides. He ran scarred fingers through the thick shock of white hair. “If only Kraal managed to—”

  “Excuse me,” a soft voice interrupted. Archon turned, backing away from the man. Dark eyes stared into his. The fellow looked bunched as if to spring, muscular, with a frighteningly professional quality to his movements. The intruder wore a nondescript brown robe, displaying glistening star patterns embroidered with Arcturian thread.

  “How did you get in here?” Archon tensed as Connie moved off to one side, face grimly pale. “This is a secure room for authorized personnel only. You don’t have Patrol clearance. Now, remove yourself from—”

  The dark man held up a hand. “Please.” He smiled ingratiatingly. “I would only like to take a moment of your time. If you would indulge me, could we perhaps discuss some business?” An eyebrow lifted suggestively, giving his round face an almost comic look.

  Archon went florid. “I do not talk—as you would say— ‘business.’ You are in a restricted area. Please leave now ... or by God’s hairy navel, I’ll call the Patrol.”

  The black eyes went flat, eyelids narrowing as a white-knuckled hand shot out, the snout of an ugly Arcturian blaster extending beyond his grip. “I want the girl where I can see her, old man. You see, we want what you’ve got. Now, we can pay whatever you ask—and do it the easy way. Or we can blast you and your precious planet to bedrock and take it ourselves! Which way do you want, Speaker?”

  “Who do you represent?” he asked, forcing a wooden note into his voice, face going slack, shoulders sagging in defeat. Connie had come close, huddling up against him, as if for protection, bracing herself against his heavy body.

  “That doesn’t matter,” the dark man hissed. “Name a price!”

  “Five billion credits,” Archon suggested, curiosity beginning to percolate.

  The intruder hesitated, thinking quickly. “Five billion could buy you a planet. Perhaps my people might be willing to go two at the most.”

  “Five! Besides, I have a planet.” He crossed his arms, the stranger tensing at his action.

  Connie seemed to bunch in on herself, as if expecting a blow. “Father?”

  “It’s all right,” Archon soothed. “Everything is under control here.
”

  The man nodded. “Yes, pretty, it is.” He gave her a rapacious stare, letting his gaze linger on her full breasts where they pushed against the fabric, tracing down the curve of her belly to the swell of her hips.

  Archon’s face became granite. “Five and a ^//billion. You don’t look at my daughter that way. You don’t ever—”

  “Now, you wait just a—”

  Connie struck, right foot lashing out like spring steel, knocking the blaster out of line. The sudden violet discharge crackled and blew a chunk out of the ceiling. She hammered his wrist with lightning blows, the weapon falling from nerveless fingers to clatter on the plate underfoot.

  Connie spun in the air, an elbow catching the side of his neck as she punched a sharp knee into his stomach, driving him into the wall and pinning him there, arm back, fingers in a hard spear above his throat.

  “One move, mister . . . and I’ll gut you!” She glared blue fire into his startled eyes. “Understand?”

  He nodded slightly, coughing. Sweat beaded fearfully on his face. He swallowed, started to speak, and gasped. His vision fixed glassily as, strength draining, he went limp in her grip. Connie looked up, puzzled, as she let the heavy weight settle to the floor.

  Frowning, Archon bent over and felt for a pulse, wary of a trap.

  “I don’t understand!” Connie gasped, baffled. A pounding of feet sounded beyond the door. “I didn’t . . . didn’t ...”

  Archon keyed the hatch and five Patrolmen rushed in, blasters drawn. “We heard a shot,” a steely-eyed sergeant announced, glance going to the body on the floor.

  “I’m Archon, Speaker of Star’s Rest. This man evidently came to ... hurt us. Rob us? I don’t know, perhaps assassination or abduction.” Archon gripped his hands together anxiously as the sergeant muttered into a belt comm. Connie caught the quick look he shot her and wilted into a chair, to chew nervously on her thumb.

  “Captain?” A call came from the hall. “We’ve got two dead men here. Looks like some sort of gas.”