Texahi, on the point of drooling, finally drew Medea’s attention. The deep poollike eyes flicked between Texahi and Constance, the Vice Consul’s face stiffening. Texahi jumped, as if from a hidden kick. The man swallowed, face turning ashen despite his dark features. For a single brief instant, Medea’s expression hardened, then the evil promise vanished.
Texahi stood unsteadily. “I ... if you would excuse me?” And he fled.
Constance had missed it all, talking innocently with Ashara. Elvina, on the other hand, along with Paul Ben Geller now turned their attention elsewhere before Medea could notice. But the smile on Elvina’s lips appeared a satisfied one.
Joseph Young continued haranguing Stokowski about Confederacy policy toward the frontiers and why they didn’t allow Mormon missionaries free access to the independent stations. Sol swallowed a smile; in the early days, too many of the tailored-suited young men ended up breathing vacuum.
As if sensing the embarrassment she’d created, Medea lifted a penciled eyebrow and began quizzing Archon about Star’s Rest. Sol listened, hearing only statistical data he’d already reviewed.
Connie looked at him over a morsel of butter-glazed lobster neatly impaled on her fork. “Does Boaz seem to handle as well as your other ships?”
Sol smiled thinly, feeling the pang in his chest. “I don’t know. Ships . . . and those who space them . . . need time to work into each other—to know their quirks and idiosyncrasies. I’ve been aboard for less than ten hours. I haven’t even had time to look her over.”
“She’ll be a fine vessel,” Archon added, turning, jaw working as he masticated a thick piece of steak. “Considering the skill and talent of the Brotherhood engineers, I’ll bet she’ll perform flawlessly.”
“I hope so.”
“If you have a moment, I’d love to see your bridge. There’s no feeling in the universe like—”
“Connie,” Archon chided. “You must excuse my daughter, Captain. I fear she has too much tomboy in her. She’s grown up in ships—had her own command— and I fear she’ll never stand her new role in the government of Star’s Rest. Too much wanderlust in her blood.”
Sol studied her curiously. She couldn’t be over twenty-five. Or could she? He noted her fine bones, marking the absence of wrinkles around her eyes. A faint spattering of freckles lay under that translucent skin. Her complexion and the shimmering turquoise dress she wore set that red-gold hair off like fire and ice. He liked the honest way she looked back at him, head canted slightly to one side.
She smiled, a saucy light behind her eyes. “Maybe I should explain. When my father is dirtside, I’m acting admiral of the Star’s Rest fleet. We have six ships, none of them a Boat—or even a Brotherhood transport, for that matter—but it’s a strong little fleet to keep us free of pirates, raiders, or any outside interference.”
“Pirates?” Elvina Young muttered, eyes wide. Did the damn woman hear everything? “We’re not going where there are pirates? Joseph, you never told me that!”
Her husband smiled blandly at her, limply patting one of her hands, and resumed his conversation with George Stokovski.
“I sincerely doubt there will be pirates,” Archon confided with a reassuring smile. “And believe me, I’ve seen the specs on this ship. Having commanded fighting vessels, I’d say Boat could stand against a fleet of six ordinary ships.”
Elvina’s eyes seemed to narrow.
Archon raised a hand, smiling warmly. “Mrs. Young, you must understand, my planet is beyond the borders policed by the Patrol. We’re responsible for our own defense out beyond the Frontier, a problem Zion hasn’t faced since the Soviet days.”
Constance added, “If we do find pirates, I’m sure Boaz would be a match for them. The Captain himself has a considerable reputation as a combat commander.”
Sol looked at his plate, appetite vanished.
“Combat!” Elvina echoed. “My word! Where did you engage in combat, Captain Carrasco?”
“Oh, it wasn’t much of anything,” Sol smiled weakly, pricked by memories going back to Arpeggio and the flaring of ships ... to Tygee and its red-blue flickering binary—and a black bogey diving out of nowhere to rake Gage.
“Do tell me!” Elvina leaned forward, eyes rapt. As the color rose in her cheeks, Sol realized just what a beautiful woman she could be were it not for her closely cut hair and that hideous Mormon dress. For the moment, she shed the drabness, a vibrancy about her. Her eyes locked with his, sensual—magnetic with promise.
“Perhaps some other time?” He withdrew lamely, suddenly uneasy. A faint smile bent her lips, and she nodded, as if to herself.
Misha Gaitano’s deckhands cleared the plates away with elan if not style. A series of toasts made the rounds from Sol and Boaz to the Confederacy and then to each of the political factions represented.
Sol approached Archon as he stood. “Speaker, if you could ...”
“Captain!” Elvina’s arm snaked around his, pulling him back. He stared down into her eyes, irritated, aware of her full breasts pushed against the muscles of his arm. “I simply must hear more about your combat! Why, to actually hear from a man v/ho’s faced death so, and to be under his protection . . . why, nothing so exciting has ever happened to me before,”
“Please, Mrs. Young ...” Sol untangled his arm, seeing Archon disappearing with Norik Ngoro. Damn it!
“But I must hear of your adventures, Captain. Why don’t we go someplace quiet and—”
“Excuse me. I must speak with my First Officer.” He smiled grimly, pulling out of her grip, and caught up with Arturian, practically sighing in relief at having left her behind. “Anything new on those ships?”
The First Officer shrugged, “From Doppler, they’re putting out almost thirty gravities to catch up. It won’t, take them long.”
“Any ID on them from long-range telemetry?”
“No, Captain.” Art’s tone was neutral. “We could pour the coals on and outrun them.”
Sol nodded. “I’ve thought about that. At the same time, can we really? Archon may have a security seal on the final destination, but how many sightings would it take before those two ships pinned our vector? Once they did so, how many planets are in the direction we’re going? Only one, First Officer.”
Art’s eyes didn’t betray his feelings. “So we just let them follow?”
Sol took a deep breath. “Any other ideas? They haven’t proven hostile yet and I’ve learned that Archon has his own fleet. Maybe they’re outriders to make sure we don’t get surprised? I’m going to latch onto him as soon as I can. Maybe he knows who they are.”
Art stared, green eyes cool, biting his tongue.
A big, burly, bearded man nodded as he walked up, cutting off further conversation. “Greetings, Captain Carrasco and First Officer Arturian. I have come to compliment you on marvelous ship, built with the sweat and blood of downtrodden masses!”
Sol smiled faintly, trying to link a name with the big rawboned man. Sharp black eyes stared at him from either side of a hawklike nose. Long black hair, braided into a ponytail, merged into a jutting black beard. The meaty arms and legs moved a little slowly in the gravity, indicating a station-born man. A sharp challenge lay behind the burning eyes, as if he expected a reaction from Sol.
“Captain, this is Nikita Malakova, Sector Representative from Gulag,” Art filled in.
Gulag? Where else could a saboteur be found but in that rat’s nest of dissidents, anarchists, terrorists, rabble-rousers, and demonstrators? “Welcome to Boaz, Mr. Representative.” Sol bowed.
“Bah!” Malakova spread his arms in disgust. “Call me Nikita. In home station of Malakova, we do not use titles. They separate family of man from itself. Now, here I am in lair of decadent and cunning Brotherhood. I intend to learn you and see what makes you tick! I want to see with my own eyes and hear with my ears, how you defend the actions of your terrorist, tyrannical leaders. You have defense?”
Sol stared blankly. “My terrorist, tyr
annical . . . Defense? I ... uh ... no. No defense. But then, no one has ever approached me quite like that . . . and to tell you the truth, I’ve never given it much thought.”
“Ah-hah!” Malakova pointed a thick finger at Sol’s chest, black eyes glowing with triumph, “That is very spirit of Tyranny! Keep people from thinking. Turn them into simple reacting machines to do bidding of power elite! Where, then, do you seek freedom of man? Eh? Where in such sewage does human spirit thrive and grow?”
“Well, I-”
“Bombastic rhetoric. I see the knight of the benighted has cornered you, Captain. My most sincere sympathies.”
Sol turned to see Fan Jordan approaching, long light brown hair in exquisite coiffeur. The hazel eyes pinned the blustering Nikita Malakova with an amused loathing. “You assume ordinary people can think? Perhaps they can—about food, drink, and simple copulation. But more, shall we say . . . abstract thoughts seem to elude them beyond their next paychecks and what they can put on their tables immediately.”
Malakova’s eyes narrowed. “Of course they think, Jordan. What else sets man apart from other animals? What overthrew corrupt black-hearted Soviet, and set man free among the stars? It was will of enlightened men to face despotism!”
“It was rabble incited by emotional pundits like you who happened to be clever with slogans,” Jordan said, stifling a yawn. “I’m sure the officers here have better things to do than listen to your babble.” Jordan turned to Sol. “Please, Captain, do drop by my quarters. I have some excellent refreshments which are the legacy of the well born.” He smiled sweetly at Malakova—now turning a deep shade of red—and passed on, muscular body moving easily.
“I would break his royal neck!” Malakova exploded, jaw working under the bushy black beard, midnight eyes sparking. Molars ground audibly.
“Royal?”
Art supplied, “He’s somewhere in line for the throne of New Maine. Some cousin to the king ... or some such thing.” Art paused, green eyes cool. “I’ve had rather a tough time putting up with him. He’s at my table. Not only that, he keeps complaining his quarters aren’t sufficiently large. At times, I’ve thought of spacing him.”
“Subdue your passions,” Sol reminded, a gentle smile on his lips.
“What is this?” Malakova asked.
“Brotherhood teaching.” Sol gestured. “One of the mantras of the philosophy.”
“Bah! Brotherhood brainwashing to keep you devoted to purpose of crushing human spirit!” Malakova rocked up and down on his toes, arms behind his back as he glared at Jordan’s retreating form.
Mark Lietov, the Sirian Ambassador, disengaged himself from the group clustered around Archon and walked over, the thin bloodless smile that seemed to be the trademark of diplomacy on his narrow face. As Sol watched him coming, he couldn’t help but dislike the man. The long, pointed chin and close cropped black hair gave Lietov a feline look.
“My pleasure to have met you at last, Captain.” He flashed Sol a quick smile. “Your reputation precedes you. It was with pleasure that those of us who follow the frontier heard of your decision to come back to the service.”
Sol shrugged, distinctly uncomfortable. “I wasn’t aware anyone cared.”
Lietov’s voice smoothed like oil on water. “Oh, but we do, Captain. Don’t you agree that the future of the Confederacy lies beyond? Explorations such as yours have advanced the sphere of humanity far beyond the pall of our understanding. You are the Neil Armstrong, the Dick Skobee, the Metronov, and the Grashinski of our times.”
Art interrupted. “Captain, if you’ll excuse me. I had better return to my duties.”
Lietov replied before Sol could get a word in edgewise, “Why, First Officer, you, too, are a splendid example of that courage on which those of us left to our muddly little planets and our confined stations must rely.”
“Don’t worry about it, Art,” Sol interjected. “I’d be happy to see to that software glitch. Probably some simple missed command.” He turned to leave.
“We talk later, Captain!” Nikita Malakova called out in a booming voice. “You and me, man to man, we will talk of this Brotherhood of yours and I will find whether your loyalties lie with your duty and philosophy, or with suffering masses of men and women laboring to fill pockets of social bloodsuckers like Lietov!”
Lietov’s smile froze, eyes, like ice, turning to Malakova.
“Captain,” Art called, voice a couple of decibels too loud in order to compete with Malakova. “I already have the program worked out.”
“If you will excuse us both, Ambassador Lietov.” Sol snagged his first officer’s arm and escaped, feeling eerily certain the grin Lietov gave him had to be an ill omen.
“Where’d they dig up Malakova? And Lietov? Quite a back pounder, eh? I wonder what he wants?”
Art’s eyes flared. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not up on these sorts of games.”
“Wish I weren’t either,” Sol gritted. “I feel like a caged rat.”
“Yes, sir.” Art’s voice remained stiffly formal as they entered one of the long white corridors which would take them forward to the bridge.
Sol turned, coming to a stop. “First Officer, is there something under your skin? If there is, let’s get it out now. If I have to work with you day in and day out, I want it to be a smooth functioning relationship. If everything I say is going to raise your hackles, we’ll be butting heads someday when we should be thinking our way out of a mess.”
Art stiffened, thick beard quivering as he turned to Sol. “It’s nothing, sir.”
Sol shook his head. “I think it’s something, Arturian. You and Bryana have been chafing from the moment I walked aboard. Any perception you have, from your beliefs as to my fitness to command all the way down to the color of my coffee cup, are my concern insofar as they can affect the way this ship is run. If you or Bryana have a beef, you tell me.”
Art’s lips pursed bloodlessly, eyes boring into Sol’s, dislike evident. Still Arturian held his tongue.
“Look, I’m not a spit-and-polish short-haul martinet.” Sol searched for any sign of understanding. “I don’t run a ship according to protocol or the book. You don’t have to like me. You don’t even have to respect me as a human being . . . but you do have to work with me day in and day out. Now, I don’t know what this business is all about, but we don’t have that long to get this ship into fighting trim. Do you understand what I’m trying to get across?”
Art’s expression hadn’t thawed. “Yes, sir. Begging the Captain’s pardon, sir, but you don’t seem to have your heart in this command.”
So there it was, laid out nice and neat. Sol took a deep breath, jaws clamped. He looked Arturian up and down, weighing this bright young man who had the backbone to glare back.
“Perhaps not, First Officer.” His breath left him slowly, taking some of the tension with it. “Nevertheless, we’re in it together and I don’t think you or Bryana have your hearts in it either.” He bit his lip. “Command cannot be a democracy, but if you ever have a question— and we have time to discuss it—let’s hash it out. I don’t have all the answers. But then, I’m willing to bet you don’t either.”
“Yes, sir!” Art agreed, snapping out a salute. “Permission to be excused, sir.”
Sol bit off a sigh. “You were never called to order in the first place. Get out of here.” He felt a sinking sensation—the kid hadn’t listened to a thing he’d said.
* * *
Connie watched Carrasco and his First Officer disappear into a side corridor, an odd mix of feelings stirring within her. Solomon Carrasco confused her. So fragile he’d looked about to burst into tears in the observation blister, he’d come off as a hard capable commander in his quarters. How could she tell which aspect of his personality dominated? How far could he be trusted? And why had that vulnerable expression of his touched her so? As her father had said back on Frontier—as if the soul could be touched.
“Connie?” Archon’s arm slipped into hers. “
I’d like you to meet Norik Ngoro, our representative from Ambrose Sector.”
She smiled and looked up into the most absorbing eyes she’d ever encountered. Ngoro’s gaze seemed to extend into her very soul, as if prying away the layers of her personality to stare at the naked essence of her being. Teetering between feelings of violation and reassurance, she breathed a little easier when he dropped his gaze.
“My pleasure, Constance.” He spoke slowly, voice a deep bass that almost thrummed. “It appears you are held in highest esteem for good reason. You have taken a great responsibility onto your shoulders. Accepting such a duty so honestly is a noble action.”
“Why . . . thank you.” Connie shot a quick glance at her father.
“However, I must warn you, to worry so much is not beneficial to good health. Doing so, you charge the blood with lipids, steroids, and hormones. Blood sugars rise. Your body tenses in a constant state of excitement and alertness. The resultant strain on the circulatory and digestive systems is disadvantageous for prolonged health.”
Connie nodded slightly.
“Representative Ngoro is a Truth Sayer in his native station.” Archon tightened his grip on her arm reassuringly. He’s been sent by his government to see to their interests in our current endeavor.“
She hesitated, uncertain. “And how is that?”
“By ascertaining who speaks truth . . . and who dissembles, Constance,” Ngoro added in his soft voice. “It came to my government’s attention that whatever your secret, a man of my powers might be of service.”
“I still don’t—”
“Ngoro has the ability to pick up truth or falsehood,” Archon explained. He shifted his attention to Ngoro. “Any studies done on that?”
Ngoro smiled, gaze drifting absently as though focused someplace beyond the bulkheads. “Brains work in curious fashions. Thought, as we know it, is a combination of electrical and chemical activities. MAP proteins are arranged in certain patterns for memory. Neurons fire in random patterns, based on probability in chaotic configurations; hence, thought takes on a variable and adaptive quality which allows innovation and experimentation in problem solving. At the same time, the body reacts, emitting certain reflections of the process. From the studies, I’m sensitive to those physical reflections of thought.
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