Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
A DEADLY TRAP
Not knowing what waited for her on the other side, Ariane grabbed a handhold as she opened the door. There was no decompression, so she stepped to the threshold. The slate’s alarm went off in her hand, vibrating as well as flashing red dots.
It felt surreal to look up at the status displayed above the door—calm green—then to look down at the slate and see blinking lights and the text WARNING! OXYGEN CONTENT INADEQUATE! TEMPERATURE DANGEROUSLY LOW! DO NOT EXPOSE SKIN!
At least the suits had been equipped with shrink-to-fit gloves, so she hastily saved the slate’s data with a single action of her thumb. Still standing at the threshold, she reached around to flip the emergency disablement switch before stepping all the way into the gym.
The door closed behind her anyway.
She whirled, her breath starting to come faster. She’d toggled the mechanical disablement switch, yet the door had closed. She was beginning to feel persecuted, and those feelings became overwhelming as the lights dimmed and a text message formed on the back of the door:
HOW CAN YOU HANDLE THE GUILT, ARI? SOON YOU’LL HAVE NO TROUBLE SLEEPING. . . .
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, December 2008
Copyright © Laura E. Reeve, 2008
All rights reserved
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eISBN : 978-1-440-64342-2
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To the U.S. Air Force and Army members I’ve had the privilege to work with, and the many other military personnel who heard the call to duty and followed it without hesitation
Acknowledgments
Most novels grow from many favors and much input. This one is no exception, and I apologize that I can acknowledge only some. First, my husband, Michael, deserves recognition for his encouragement and scientific advice, including his ability to simplify subjects ranging from quantum physics to cosmology. I am also indebted to my parents, Gerry and Norma, for their continuous support and for not noticing when I filched books from their library. I’m exceedingly grateful for the patient reviews and astute questions from my critique partner, Robin; my sister, Wendy; and my first reader, Summer. My agent, Jennifer Jackson, deserves all the accolades I can compose for her, after sticking with me through multiple manuscripts. Finally, thanks to Jessica Wade and the staff at Penguin Group, who brought this series into being.
CHAPTER 1
The name Pax Minoica might satisfy the damned latinized
League, but the Minoans don’t care.
[Link to theories regarding modern Minoans encountered in twenty-first century]
That’s not the purpose of the name; the Senate’s appealing to net-think nostalgia by hearkening back to pre-Terran
Earth. Two ancient accords, both successful, carried the
name of Pax Minoica. Alexander the Great brokered the
second, so the Senate gets the bonus of megahero
aura, helping them spin these treaties to citizens . . .
—Anonymous Sophist at Konstantinople Prime University, 2091.98.10.22 UT, indexed by Democritus 9 under Hypothetical Effect Imperative
The floodlights from Aether’s Touch washed over the vessel on the portside slip, enhancing its tortuous lines and pulsing skin. It looked like an amoebic parasite sucking life away from Athens Point rather than a docked spacecraft using legitimately leased resources.
"Matt? Get us a different slip. They’re putting us next to Minoans,” Ariane said over internal comm to the only other crew member on Aether’s Touch. Her fingers flew across her console and strengthened their firewall, a precaution she took when docking at any habitat. She wasn’t paranoid, only sensible.
"I’ll talk to Command Post,” Matt replied from the protected array compartment.
He sounded altogether too fresh and cheery, she thought sourly, because he had gotten rack time during N-space. The bright pumping into his bloodstream since they entered real-space had cleared his head. She, however, had to stay awake through N-space, and that meant clash, as most pilots called it. Clash kept her terrors at bay, her reflexes sharp, and her thoughts clear but jaggedly edged with irritability. Running her fingers through her loose, short curls, she felt them tremble against her hypersensitive scalp. The clash pushed uncomfortably behind her eyelids when she closed them, and the bright wasn’t helping.
"That’s all they can give us. All their class-C slips are taken.” Matt no longer sounded cheerful.
"That’s shit from the Great Bull itself. Who’d we piss off?” Ariane’s question was rhetorical. Everyone followed the rules when Minoans were around, so she and Matt would suffer the most rigorous inspections po
ssible from Athens Point Customs and Flight Records.
"We can’t afford Minoan attention. Do you think they know what we’re carrying?”
"Don’t see how. I don’t think this is personal; it’s just bad luck.” Ariane focused on the directional lights flashing at their slip.
"Bad luck all around. I already notified Nestor and told him to stand ready.”
"Great—him and every lurker on this habitat,” she said.
"The claims will be puncture-proof. Really.”
She didn’t answer. Among Matt’s frustrating qualities were his unshakable confidence, good humor, and optimism. As a perennial pessimist, she doubted that he and Nestor could close the loopholes. By now, lurkers had seen their ship arrive and had their legal vultures ready to muscle in on the action. Once Nestor submitted their claims and the deadline expired, the carnage would start. Aether Exploration’s claims would have to withstand everything from patent infringement threats to good old-fashioned claim jumping.
She oriented Aether’s Touch and started Y-vector approach into the docking ring. Everything was right on track. She had time and was as curious as the next mundane, so she reviewed the video of the portside ship.
No mundane human, to her knowledge, had been on board a Minoan vessel. Net-think speculated that the outside skin was a partially organic composite, perhaps because of its mottled green-yellow color and the pulsing movement of conduits. Lights glowed through its hull, but didn’t resolve into decks. Net-think also postulated that Minoan shielding allowed true windows in their N-space ships. Ariane couldn’t guess where their referential engine was located or whether the ship was armed. She didn’t dare direct her lights and cam-eyes toward the Minoan vessel again, as she didn’t want to attract their attention.
She idly watched the approach video from the starboard cam-eye, happy to see the angular outline of a mundane ship. When she saw weapons pods, however, she magnified the video and frowned as the AFCAW logo slid by. Why would a military ship, in this case a lightweight cruiser, dock at Athens Point when it could use Karthage?
"Let’s get through docking without a fuss. How’s it look for flight records?” Matt’s voice interrupted her deliberations about the cruiser.
Ariane chewed her lip.
"You’re legal, right? Ari?” His voice became sharp.
The logs on Aether’s Touch would prove she’d stayed within real-space safety limits, but that wasn’t the source of Matt’s concern. She considered the cocktail of drugs inside her body. The street smooth she’d added to take the edge off the clash wasn’t an approved supplement. On the other hand, regulations didn’t prohibit smooth, and in this case Athens Point Flight Records got to decide whether she had used a safe dose.
"I’m not sure,” she said reluctantly.
Matt swore.
"Look, I only added some smooth. Plenty of pilots use it, with no problems.”
"But we’re going to be hammered with every regulation possible,” he said.
"How’d I know we’d be squeezed between Minoans and AFCAW?” Her voice rose and her stomach tightened. She should have made this run strictly by the book. Too late now.
There was ominous silence over internal comm.
"Matt?”
"AFCAW? Here?”
"Cruiser, lightly armed, docked to starboard.”
"I’ll be on deck for final connection.” Matt cut off to lock down the array compartment. Aether’s Touch was a second-wave prospector, and while she supported a crew of only two, she had the latest exploration-rated equipment. Sapphire-shielded crystal arrays held their precious cargo: information gathered through every possible remote sensor and telebot available on Aether’s Touch. Physical samples were stored in the compartment aft of the vaults.
Ariane turned back to her console and concentrated on the approaching slip. The autopilot wasn’t foolproof and any pilots worth their salary wouldn’t let their ship attempt docking unattended.
Matt climbed to the control deck as station supply and recycling tubes were clamping on to the Aether’s Touch. He was more protective of the ship than Ariane; she knew he watched the station crews critically through the cam-eye, ready to pounce on any safety deviations. Ariane’s fingers danced over the smooth console surface. She turned over environmental controls to the habitat so they could run on station resources and power. Of course, Athens Point would bill Matt for every second of each service.
"Aligned and using station gravity. Switching over air supply.” Ariane called out her checklist steps over intercom as was required by regulations, not that anyone needed to hear them. Matt knew when his air supply changed. She watched his reflection turn and sniff the air, his angular cheekbones, nose, and jaw showing a pleasing profile. He kept his blond hair short, cut in a military style that Ariane preferred. Not that she’d made her preferences known to him. . . .
She looked away. Matt was her employer, the civilian equivalent of her commander. Besides that, he was crew. The only way for a crew to work successfully was to keep the relationship professional. I’ll never make that mistake again. Ariane clamped down on her thoughts, squashing the memories into darkness.
"Ah, fresh air.” Matt sighed.
Ariane suppressed a smile. Only crèche-get could appreciate station air. Matt was a generational ship baby and carried the generational-line last name of Journey. Because of his upbringing, he considered any proven crew member to be family. Perhaps he was a bit too trusting, but this worked in her favor since she didn’t have an authentic family or background.
She and Matt trusted each other, which was necessary because new space had its dangers. The generational ship that established the time buoy in the new solar system wasn’t responsible for charting or resource discovery. That was the job of the second-wave prospectors, and Ariane liked being out in the lonely nether reaches for months on end.
"Let’s see what’s waiting.” Matt leaned over her shoulder and activated the cam-eye feed from the dock.
Wearing colorful badges and crisp uniforms, three officials stood at the end of their ramp and looked as pompous as possible. They expected Customs and Flight Records, but not Station Ops.
"I’ve never seen all three officials on the ramp before, and certainly not in such clean gear.” Matt widened the view to show the whole ramp, and they saw the reason Station Ops was present.
"What the . . . ?” she said.
"We’re fucked,” he said.
Several paces behind the three officials stood a tall figure with an elaborate horned headdress and robes that managed to look diaphanous while remaining androgynous. A Minoan. No one would have asked its purpose here; the Minoans rarely explained their business to mundanes. It stood, stopping traffic, in the center of the main ring corridor. A buzzing cloud of remotes, trying to record the rare occurrence of a Minoan on a commercial habitat, kept several meters away. Behind the billowing mass of remotes, well behind them, stood a few onlookers who were just at the edge of cam-eye view from the ship.
"Don’t panic. There’ll only be delays. They’ll have to do a brain-wave pattern panel to detect and quantify the smooth.” Ariane said this matter-of-factly, since the flight records official had all the appropriate equipment hanging from her left shoulder.
"As long as no one gets a whiff of our cargo,” he said.
She nodded, her gut wincing. The waiting Minoan drew excessive attention to their arrival, more than Matt’s messages or her delays with Flight Records required. The entire station was probably watching and loading video of the Minoan onto ComNet. They might as well have announced on the feeds that they’d made the most significant find of their lifetimes, which was far more important than her pilot license and rating.
After they opened the air lock, Ariane took a moment to digest the smells and the air quality, the unique signature of every station. Heavy equipment wasn’t allowed on class-C docks; the mixture of perfumes, sweat, and spices overrode traces of ozone and lubricant. As stimulating as the scents were
, the gray deck and panels of Athens Point were similar to those of other habitats.
She paused at the top of the ramp, disoriented. The panels near their slip should be covered with—ah, now they had been found and targeted. Advertisements aimed at Ariane and Matt, selected per their buying habits, opened and fought for space on the wall and even the ceiling. She knew better than to look up this soon on station, before she was used to habitat-g. For this very reason, the deck was off-limits to anything but operational and emergency announcements. The audio for the advertisements started yammering in her implanted ear bug; she pressed behind her ear and turned it off, since it would automatically activate for private and urgent messages. Turning the ear bug off, unfortunately, triggered higher volume from the nodes supporting the wall display. Every merchant she or Matt had ever used seemed to be trotting advertisements across the wall. After being isolated in new space for more than six months, she was unnerved by the discordant sights and sounds.
Ariane glanced past the officials. Hopeful advertisers were even peppering the Minoan. Its headdress extended its head organically and supported the requisite horns, jewels, and beads—apparently justifying the jewelry commercials. Hidden equipment obscured its head and face, and raised contours that sucked in light rather than reflected it. The "velvet-over-ice mask,” coined by net-think, defeated man-made sensors and ensured that facial features or skin wasn’t visible.
If Minoans had faces or skin. Net-think had more theories than she could count regarding the origin of the Minoans and who or what they were. Shortly after the Hellenic Alliance put mankind onto Earth’s moon, the Minoans arrived. They offered the essential element for N-space travel to several other solar systems. At the time, they controlled the secret to making N-space time buoys, and a hundred years later, they still maintained that monopoly.
She looked away from the Minoan quickly, focusing on her scuffed boots. The officials waited. She jerked her head once to shake her loose curls and make them presentable. As she walked down the ramp, her boots made light, ringing taps, sounding deceptively delicate. Matt followed, his lanky stride making rude clunks. When she stopped, he put his hands on her shoulders and stood behind her, looking over her head. She felt tension in his hands through her coveralls.
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