“Captain?” A call came from the hall. “We’ve got two dead men here. Looks like some sort of gas.”
Archon winced. “My God, no.”
“You knew them?” The Patrolman cocked his head suspiciously.
“Our bodyguards. You might want to contact the Brotherhood. I’m sure they’d like to know immediately.”
Two of the Patrol folded out a small portable stretcher and hustled the dead man into the corridor. The sergeant looked up from his comm and held the instrument out twenty centimeters from Archon’s eye to take a retinal print. One of the displays flickered and the sergeant nodded, satisfied with the ID. “You know the intruder? Seen him before?”
“No. He’s a total stranger. How did he get in here?”
“He didn’t pass through my security. But then, this is Arcturus. In this day and age, you can’t always tell who’s selling a diplomatic pass for a couple thousand credits. We try, Speaker. For every advance we make in security, someone else is thinking up a counter. The budget for the Patrol can’t compete with some planetary governments. Um, if you don’t mind, how did you kill him?” The hard eyes held that colorless expression of police everywhere.
“I don’t know that I did,” Connie replied uneasily. “I think you’d better run an autopsy. I just . . .1 don’t understand. I’d hate to think I ...”
The sergeant jerked his head in a quick nod. His ear-piece buzzed inaudibly as it fed him instructions. “Very well, Speaker, my superiors have been informed and confirm your diplomatic immunity. We’re checking the area now for other intruders. Sorry this happened, and we hope the rest of your stay on Arcturus will be less . . . eventful. We’ll tighten the net around you and your daughter. My office will be in touch.” He snapped out a salute and turned on his heel, making a quick estimate of the damage to the roof on the way out.
The door snicked shut.
“That’s it? No ‘Come with us’ or grilling? And you played it well, still haven’t lost that worried, innocent act. How was I supposed to know it would be so easy? Too many years in trouble, huh?”
Connie took a deep breath, the distraught expression fading. She stood up, dusting her hands off, brows knit as she paced. “Diplomatic immunity? That’s a new one for an old pirate like you. But I didn’t hit him that hard. I just didn’t.”
Archon settled his heavy chin on nervous fingers and frowned. “So, the bloodworms have caught the odor of flesh and are creeping ever closer. Come, let’s get out of here. Nowhere is safe anymore. The ship’s docking. Let’s get our things and board. The sooner we’re on Boaz, the better.”
She looked up, flipping the wealth of golden red over her shoulder, eyes clear and thoughtful. “Will it be safe there either, Father?”
His lined face betrayed worry while his grin mocked in a rictus. “No, girl. But we knew that when we started, didn’t we?”
* * *
Nikita Malakova reclined in his office antigrav, tugging at his thick black beard. As a boy, he’d kept the bees on his station. To a station, bees were as necessary as a good fusion system. They kept the plants pollinated. Without plants, men had no food, no oxygen cycle, no way of reprocessing waste into anything but yeast cake—and who wanted to eat only yeast cake? Only now, the Confederate Council reminded him of the reaction he used to get from the hive when he removed the combs of honey: stirring and buzzing, but he hadn’t been able to discover the fingers of the beekeeper in action.
His secretary, Andrei Karpov, growled from where he bent over his desk, headset glowing as he processed reports. One wall of the spacious office depicted the various stations, planets, and mining claims in Gulag Sector in 3-D holographic relief. Colorful, laser-generated flow charts of Confederate legislation in various phases of acceptance or debate brightly illuminated another wall. The third wall gleamed with an array of communications equipment by which Nikita kept track of his constituents—and, of course, who was spying on whom in the ever shifting power base of his beloved Gulag Sector.
A bear of a man, Nikita Malakova kept his seat on the Council by virtue of fluid political footwork, his dominating personality, and a keen sense of where to position himself at the right time and place to keep ahead of the pack. Bluff and hearty, he reeked of his Great Russian ancestry. As deportees, his forefathers originally found themselves exiled to Gulag for publicly denouncing the decadent leadership of the World Soviet. With more patriotic fervor than sense, they publicly claimed the leadership had betrayed the Revolution to line their own pockets. At 180 cm tall, with a strapping frame, he could be physically imposing when people ignored his adept mind. Black-haired and coarse featured, he looked the part of a Cossack.
“Nikita?” Andrei called. “You might want to read this.”
A sheet slipped out of his armrest as the recessed printer put the message on official flimsy.
Malakova scowled blackly at the missive. “What is this? They want me to go clear across known space? For what? To fool around with bunch of lousy snobby bourgeois fops?” He slapped the tissue with a thick thumb. “Is waste of money. Besides, what of important duties I have to discharge here? Eh? Without me, who keeps interests of Gulag Sector safe? They take us for all they can get.“ And things have finally started to happen. The seal is Palmiere’s.
“So go. Is vacation. Besides, Nikita,” Andrei continued, “something is up and you know it. Sirius scrambles like proverbial mice in storage bin when station manager finds little mouse pellets floating in soup. New Maine sends Earl of Baspa, the king’s whatever he is ... cousin?”
“Fan Jordan is cousin. He also sneaks into Sirian embassy.” Nikita snorted. “Too many power blocs shift, Andrei. Makes good diplomat like me nervous.”
“So, is fact. Jordan is here to keep Mainiac noses in scent. What they do with Sirians? Our people report whole Arpeggian fleet has been massed for first time in years! Even Earth—normally busy cutting own silly throat—is readying battleships. For all this activity, is too quiet. People working too hard to act like nothing’s cooking.”
Nikita scowled at the holo of Gulag Sector, tapping a thick finger to the side of his cheek. “... And no Brotherhood statements? No hint of what they’re into? When tricksters are silent, trouble brews. I told you, eh? Remember when Palmiere canceled appointment? I told you then. Not only that, security tightens around embassies. Notice how Sirians have disappeared from Council last couple of days? Too many fake smiles under worried eyes.” Nikita chuckled, exposing straight white teeth under his thick black mustache. “And where is better for subversive Gulagi like us but in very middle of subterfuge, eh?”
“And, as you say, no Brotherhood.”
“Which worries me. Think, Andrei. Why? They hang in Confederate space like spiders. Webs strung here and there, always set to trap you, stick you in something you don’t like. Does wise man walk into uncertain future carelessly? No. He walk with good light, looking for Brotherhood traps.”
“And Kraal is too tricky.” Andrei leaned back, expression pained. “Like mind reader, eh? He has fork and napkin out before others even decide to bake cake.”
Nikita spun his recliner, staring up at the comm monitor. “Comm. Establish communication with Tayash Niter. Visual, third level scramble.” As he waited, he called over his shoulder, “Now, let us see if Tayash, too, has been given bait.”
A white-headed man with a long face peered out of the screen. The antithesis of Malakova, he looked frail, washed out, and spindly.
“Tayash, old friend. I have just received most interesting invitation—”
“—To go to the ends of space for some sort of conference? Yes, it just came through.”
“And?”
Tayash pulled at his long nose where it hooked over sunken cheeks. “And I feel something in the air, Nikita. You’re the ferret, however; what have you dug out from under the hydroponic roots?”
Bluffly, Nikita spread his arms wide. “Nothing! And that, my friend, means something big is happening-something so big no on
e wants to posture first for political support. So what could this be, eh?”
“Brotherhood terrorist tricks?”
Nikita cocked his head. “And I would like to know that for fact! Perhaps we could pry Brotherhood tentacles out of suffering masses and get on to freeing oppressed!”
Tayash smiled, a twinkle in his blue eyes. “Then you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Niter lifted thin hands, bony fingers steepled. “We are going on a Brotherhood ship to this . . . this Star’s Rest.”
“A Brotherhood . . . No!”
“Yes.”
“And you are going?”
“Of course, Nikita. And I hope I will see you aboard. But excuse me, I have a visitor in the outer office. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have some more details.” The image popped away to nothingness.
“So you go?” Andrei asked. Nikita spun to face him, one black bushy eyebrow lifting uneasily.
“Of course I go! What you think all those stations pay for to send me here? To sit around Council chamber and harass Capitalist pig entrepreneurs? No, is to waste money riding around space, drinking fine whiskey, diddling the satin flesh of beautiful women, eating decadent rich foods, luxuriating in finery, and finding new backs to slip stiletto into. Of course I go.”
He smiled and winked as Andrei sent an exasperated look of appeal to the heavens.
Nikita hesitated, pulling at the thick rug of black beard hanging from his jowls. “No, something very strange is afoot. I go to guard our interests, Andrei. You notice invitation is only to me? Same for other Council Members of major political power blocs only. Invitation does not extend to lesser staff.”
The secretary rubbed his long-limbed arms reflectively. “Comrade Representative, I think at heart you are no more than a Capitalist pig yourself.”
Nikita chuckled heartily. “Andrei, Andrei, how many times I tell you? Never speak truth when lie will do. I am true champion of downtrodden mankind. See? Lie does fine to cover true hedonist proclivities.
“Very well, pack my bags. I will go on this . . . this junket. And while I am gone, you know how Gulagi want us to vote, eh? Must keep anarchist rebels happy or they not reelect us to this most demanding position.”
“As always. Anything to block bourgeois decadent Capitalist pigs, Communist social maggots, Fascist oppressors, or Brotherhood subversives.” The secretary raised his eyebrow. “Is all? Or have I missed some other vile tormentor of proletariat?”
Nikita shrugged. “Covers most. A Brotherhood ship? They are in middle of this? Then plot thickens. Not even atomic motors could keep me away from those lepers in saintly society of man.”
“Bah! I think you like them deep down inside. Only Brotherhood does better what you do, eh? Only they continually outfox foxes.”
Nikita grunted. “You get too smart, Andrei. Maybe I replace you with sexy blonde with breasts like melons and long legs leading up most wondrous—”
“Maybe I tell your three wives?”
Nikita stiffened, wincing. “You have heart and compassion of Cytillian bloodworm, Andrei. Maybe I bring you something from Brotherhood ship—like quick traceless poison ... or fancy ultrasonic beam to make it look like you die of simple brain hemorrhage?”
“You wouldn’t dare. I leave message to your number one wife in safe place . . . just in case.”
Nikita laughed lustily. “Oh, wouldn’t I? Good Gulagi like me? You never know, Andrei, what a man will do to keep pesky wives from knowing.”
CHAPTER V
First Officer Arturian leaned forward in his command chair, brow cleft by frown lines as he balanced his bearded chin on an empty coffee cup—brown-stained from thousands of gallons between washings. The monitor before his face flickered suddenly.
“No!” he hollered, jerking bolt upright.
“Your move,” the ship’s speakers intoned.
Arturian settled over the coffee cup again, irritation animating his face as he peered at the screen. “Numbers five, seven, and fourteen advance by point six parsecs. Three and nineteen forward by one point six parsecs. Fire coordinates in sector seven, power magnitude blaster sweep through sub-sector 02001.”
Arturian waited, nothing flickered on the board. His fist knotted on the console as the lights rearranged and two more of his little ships flared and went blank on the screen.
“Tain’t fair!” Arturian sulked.
“Curious slang, First Officer,” Boaz commented.
“Yeah, comes from home. I’m one of the odd ones born on Terra. I grew up in a place called Wyoming. They talk normal there—it’s the rest of the confounded Confederacy that’s outta verbal whack. Took me years to learn Russian.”
“Your move,” Boaz reminded.
“You sure you’re not cheating?” Art looked around the bridge suspiciously. As small as the bridge really was, the design artfully created a roomy appearance. Every conceivable surface sprouted screens, monitors, and consoles, all sunk behind some clear glassy material that was resilient to the touch. Digital and old-fashioned gauge readouts told their own subtle story, and all the angles were carefully padded to leave the whole complex visible from any of the three instrument-studded command chairs.
“Ship coming in,” Boaz announced in her modulated “oice.
Arturian raised wary eyes to the main screen, noting the bulky shape of a Brotherhood Fast Transport as it slid out of the big rings. It hovered for a second before being caught up by the tugs and towed in. Arturian rubbed his nose, scratched at his bearded chin, and rested his reserved green-eyed gaze on the monitor. “Must be the Captain. Is Sol Carrasco really ten feet tall with fire sparking in his eyes?”
“Guess we’ll find out,” Bryana called from behind as she slid her bulky form into another of the command chairs. “I got the Speaker and his daughter settled in.” She cocked her head. “You know, I kind of like the guy. Looks every inch a pirate.”
“And his daughter?”
“Your tongue’s going to loll out and you’ll drool all over your chest. She’s a knockout. Long thick red hair, great body, high-breasted with flat tummy and great hips. The kind all you male animals salivate over—and I‘d like to space.”
“Super, I can’t wait to sweep her off her feet. I—”
“Maybe you’d better be careful, Art. Just a feeling, but I think she’s out of your league.”
“Oh? And just what-”
“Like . . . well, she’s dangerous. The kind that’d cut your throat in the dark if you pushed her.” She stared soberly into his eyes and smiled. “Just woman’s intuition, mind you.”
To change the subject, he asked, “And you got the data to what’s his name in Engineering?”
“You haven’t met Happy Anderson yet.”
“Talked to him over comm.”
“Talking over comm’s one thing. Blessed Architect, the man’s an animal! A real jewel of a human being. He’s loud, lewd, obnoxious—and a damn know-it-all. To listen to him, you’d think he was a brain-dead Arcturian sewage engineer with delusions of grandeur. And he’s First Engineer? Just wait, you’ll see.”
“Sure, and when would I have had time to wander down and say howdy-do? This is my first moment of relaxation—and where am I doing it? On the bridge!”
“There’re only the two of us,” she reminded. “How many watches a day can you divide that into? Or do you want to shut Boaz down for a couple of hours while we socialize?”
Art lifted his lip, wrinkling his face in an overplayed snarl. She laughed, eyes flashing as she fumbled her cup from the space pouch on her belt. Art grinned. “Touchy today, aren’t we? Let’s talk more about the redhead and my hormonal drives.”
“Hey, after dealing with her and her father, I’m not the only one who’s touchy. Only they were . . . well, tight, you know? Like real worried about something. And they had Brotherhood agents with them. Not just the run of the mill local volunteer types, but the ones you just say ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ to without
thinking about it.”
“ ‘A simple mission,’ the orders said. ‘Take the Speaker and Confederate Council Representatives to Star’s Rest. Please make their transit as pleasant as possible and avoid political entanglements. End.’ ”
“A milk run for our first deep space? I can live with that. Only . . . why do I have this sour feeling inside?”
“More woman’s intuition?”
She glared at him.
Arturian chuckled to himself as he pulled his long dark brown pony tail up from behind the command chair where he’d pinched it. He and Bryana had been crewing together for years, always on the verge of a relationship—forever scared of the consequences.
To start with, she was good to look at—but not fantastically beautiful. Raven-black hair shimmered, framing a full, olive-complected face that betrayed her Armenian heritage. Her weight hovered on the verge of chunky without crossing that line to fat. Only her large nose seemed out of proportion to the rest of her face. Her greatest attribute had always been her deep soft brown eyes in which Art could drown by the hour.
“You know, this whole thing has the back of my neck itching. They rushed Boaz into service. We spaced from Frontier to Arcturus without a commanding officer. Shakedown? Without a Captain aboard? The engineer’s a howling barbarian. Now they’ve changed the command. I don’t know. I got a bad feeling about this.”
She chewed the knuckle of her thumb. “Something’s not right about this whole mission. A ship like Boaz? To transport politicians?”
“Wonder how Petran Dart feels about having his pride and joy snookered away from under his nose?” Arturian slipped his coffee cup into the dispenser.
“How happy would you be?”
“Not very.” Art muttered, concentrating on the screen. “I signed on to space with Dart and I get Carrasco? Heard he’d been broken into a basket case.”
“That atavistic protohominid in Engineering thinks the galaxy turns around Carrasco.” Bryana pushed her command chair back and cocked her head, eyes sweeping with practiced efficiency over the gleaming white consoles of the bridge. She turned to glance speculatively at the tall captain’s chair studded with instruments and command consoles. The field generator for the command headset waited, raised in the ready position. Dominating the bridge, the chair remained empty—a powerful presence about the uncreased padding.
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