W Michael Gear

by The Artifact (v3. 1) (epub)

  “Beware. To claim you have ultimate truth is as much a sin as having none at all. So maybe you come closer to the champion of the masses than others. IVe always thought you kept a rational head when it came to voting for policy.”

  Nikita lifted his glass of Cielan sherry and smacked his lips. “Yes, my friend, I seriously believe I am champion. No matter that I enjoy fringe benefits along way. Tell me truth. You ever see Nikita Malakova vote for his own benefit? You ever see me suck up to someone like that Sirian pig, Lietov—or perhaps Fan Jordan—when I could make great personal gain? Does that mean I am social maggot? Living like parasite in corpse of people? Then I take that title. But most politicians are lying vermin—like infestation of lice in station atmosphere plant.”

  Tayash smiled warmly. “Well . . . You know, you’ve got a reputation for being a hard-nosed son of a bitch who—”

  “Is because I never let powerless working people down, Tayash. Yes, I enjoy sherry, enjoy good food . . . but should I eat ration bars when delicacies like this would go to waste otherwise? Better in Nikita’s gut than in anyone else’s. Truth!” His voice dropped. “But, Tayash, if you ever see me sell out people . . . see me compromise my ethics, then you may spit upon me and turn your back. For then, old friend, I will not be worthy of respect.”

  Tayash nodded, staring across the room to where Norik Ngoro stood in a floor-length yellow and orange toga crafted of the finest Arcturian fabrics. About his neck hung a small vial of soil from his native station. Ngoro spoke casually to Mikhi Hitavia, the Reinland Representative, while Mac Torgusson and Charney Hendricks listened. Hendricks—the University Representative—had the myopic squint of a scholar, while Torgusson—Moscow Sector Representative—stood tall and thin—a hyperactive man who ran on a perpetually short fuse.

  Tayash waved toward Ngoro, adding, “You would say that in front of him?”

  Nikita squirmed to get more comfortable. “Yes, I would say that before him.”

  As if he’d heard, Ngoro looked over, locking eyes with Nikita Malakova.

  Under his breath, the big Gulagi added, “That man, of all men I have ever met, is most scary.”

  * * *

  The tall black man stood loose-limbed, a vacancy in his eyes. One hand rested absently on the lock plate to operate the security hatch leading to the officers’ quarters and the bridge beyond.

  “Excuse me,” Sol said, “Mr. Representative, that hatch leads to secure sections of the ship. If you would ...”

  The man turned his head slowly, eyes unfocused, a slight frown lining his forehead. “You are Solomon Carrasco?”

  “Yes.” Sol met the eerie eyes, heart skipping at the disconnected expression. Unconsciously, he crouched in a combat stance.

  “You seem to be a worried man, Captain. You and Constance. A pair of worried people, outstanding among a flock of worriers. Only you and Constance are frightened, ground and worn by what you perceive to be immense responsibilities. So similar ... so different. But then, such things make for humankind.”

  “I ... Representative Ngoro, could I help you with something? You can’t pass that hatch without security approval. If I can—”

  “I did not wish to pass a security hatch, Captain. I wanted only to retire to my cabin and contemplate the creature aboard.”

  “Creature? I ... My God, you didn’t see a rat, did you? The ship’s brand new. Usually takes a while before the damn rodents are—”

  “A human creature, Captain.” Ngoro’s eyes flickered, his features sharpening as he studied Carrasco. “Tell me, Captain, do you satisfy yourself that you behave in an ethical manner? Do you consciously seek to do the best possible for yourself, your colleagues, and your enemies?”

  Sol swallowed hard, controlling his suddenly felt anger. “Honestly, Representative Ngoro, I try to be ethical. Now, what that might mean could engage us in hours of argument. Let’s say I’m a situational ethicist, calling the shots based upon the information at hand at a given moment.”

  “Yes, you do, don’t you. Perhaps that is why you have taken this assignment?”

  “Mr. Representative, do you feel all right? You’re not disoriented or ... I mean, would you like me to take you to the hospital?”

  “I am quite well, thank you, Captain.” Ngoro smiled easily. “This is just a manner of mine. Forgive me, I should have paid better attention to finding my way, only I’m preoccupied with the creature. You see, I am a Truth Sayer.”

  “I noted that in the passenger profile. I didn’t—”

  “Some say I read minds, Captain. Only it isn’t quite that way. What I do is judge people. I’m a sensitive. I know when humans are lying. Such skills are most valuable in a judicial system. For that reason, my people sent me to see to their interests. Now I have encountered the creature.”

  “You keep mentioning the creature.” Sol stood at ease, thumbs locked behind him. “Could you tell me more about it?”

  “Yes . . . most interesting. Someone wishes us all harm. Genius, I tell you. Never have I met so disciplined a mind—only glimpses under graphsteel control. Single-mindedly playing a part, a role of deception and espionage. The tension builds within . . . seeking to burst that control, seeking to hurt.”

  Fingers, like tendrils of liquid hydrogen, stroked Solomon’s soul. “Can you pinpoint who this person is?”

  Norik smiled wistfully. “In time, Captain. In time. The creature is most cunning, suspecting everything, everyone. Perhaps it fears the powers of your ship? Perhaps it fears its own lust to hurt, to dominate. Lust can break loose at the most inappropriate times, bringing disaster. Indeed, genius ... the creature guards itself well.”

  “Creature, you say? Is this thing an alien or—”

  “Most human, I assure you. I use the term only metaphorically since I—of all people—do not understand the motivations of its clever mind.”

  “Perhaps if we made each person stand before you?”

  “I would that it were that easy. No, this person is possibly the most devious of any I have encountered. I only get hints of the hatred ... the power lust. The glimpse in my mind is so brief ... to be instantly controlled by a brilliant, powerful opponent.

  “However, I shall learn, Captain. I shall study, and I shall learn.”

  Sol nodded uneasily. “When you have something, let me know. Don’t hesitate. I’ll do my best to handle the situation ethically.”

  Ngoro’s gaze seemed to cut into his very soul, laser bright, surgically dissecting the defenses and subterfuges of personality to expose the marrow of Solomon Carrasco.

  Sol swallowed hard, stepping back, heart beginning to race.

  “Yes, Captain, you are a most curious man. So strong, so vulnerable, so driven. Hounded by responsibility.”

  “That’s part of command, Mister Representative. Responsibility can’t be avoided in my profession.”

  Ngoro chuckled from the depths of his belly. “Nor can it be avoided in a true state of nature. I look around out there in the lounge, and I see so many avoiding. In Ambrose Sector ... in all the Confederacy, I see men and women burying their heads, wrapping the blanket of social institution around themselves as a shield against assuming responsibility. You and Constance and Archon and Nikita have avoided that delusion. In nature, Captain, a person can’t escape responsibility. Not and survive.

  “You seem introspective. Excellent, but I will pose this question, since I see the fear and turmoil in your very soul: What will you do when you must face your greatest fear? To pass responsibility on to another is safe, without risk or danger. Doing so absolves you of overt guilt and recrimination. You have simply fulfilled your duty in the chain of command. Yet, if you choose to accept responsibility for your actions, and decisions, all likelihood is that your judgments will be wrong. That’s statistical reality. How can you accept that?”

  Sol frowned, working his lips. “I’m not sure—”

  “There you are!”

  Sol turned to see Amahara charging down the hall,
concern on his normally benign features. Panting, he ran up, wiping pale blond hair out of his eyes.

  “The Captain and I were discussing ethics . . . and the creature.”

  Amahara shifted nervously, eyes flickering back and forth from one face to the other face. “Norik, how many times have I told you not to speculate openly. I, well, I doubt the Captain is the creature, but if you keep talking about it . . .”

  “I’ll be fine.” Ngoro smiled disjointedly. “I’m close, so very very close to finding the dangerous one. Just a couple more days, a few more observations ...”

  “And look at you.” Amahara fussed as he pulled the now drooping toga up over Norik’s shoulder. “You’d be naked given half a chance. You said you were going to your room. I was half crazy when I got there and you were missing.”

  “I was ...” Norik frowned. “The lock plate wouldn’t work.”

  “I found him here,” Sol added.

  Amahara giggled nervously. “Yes, well, he gets lost in his head, you see. Sort of like a novelist. Lives in a different world than the real one around us. Please, I hope he didn’t cause you any difficulty.”

  “None at all, we had a most productive discussion.” Sol smiled as Amahara started to lead Ngoro away. “And, Amahara, when he discovers the ‘creature’ call me immediately, do you understand?”

  Amahara jerked his head vigorously in assent, already worrying at Ngoro.

  Sol watched them go. “A creature, he says.”

  * * *

  “Ship?” Sol asked as he sealed his hatch. “Did you monitor the conversation between Norik Ngoro and myself?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Analysis?”

  The ship intoned, “The obvious correlation lies between Archon’s suggestion that a saboteur is aboard and the feelings of Norik Ngoro. I have accessed the file on the Truth Sayer. His powers are justly claimed, accurate to within a half a percentage point in more than one triple-blind experiment. The physiological distinctions which set his brain apart include—”

  “Never mind the hard data. I believe. Rather, let’s attack the problem in a constructive manner. Sabotage can come in many forms, so what do you have in files?” Sol lay back on his bunk and jammed his coffee cup into the dispenser.

  And that crazy Gulagi is carrying a pulse pistol in his pocket! The President of University, Charney Hendricks, has a portable chem lab in his room. What else haven’t I found out about?

  “First, soft methods include time-delay damage to machinery by such means as unhardened bearings, computer viruses or worms, inadequate programming, psychological manipulation of humans can be induced by-”

  “How many of those soft methods can you find applicable in our present situation?” Sol interrupted.

  “Sixty-five, Captain.”

  “How many can be easily countered by data access lock-out, restricted access, and so forth?” Sol stared at the white panels above. Damn it, why is this happening to me?

  “Fifty-nine, Captain. I am not capable of controlling the brains of easily persuaded human beings, however.”

  Images immediately formed of Fan Jordan, Nikita Malakova and that despicable Mark Lietov. “I understand. You’re to take such actions and provide me with a printout I can, in turn, take to Happy so we can determine the effect on the functioning of the ship. What about hard sabotage?”

  “There are two subsets of action in that category, Captain. The first includes actions taken against equipment such as the bombing of the reactor, air plant, navcomm or bridge. The second is directed against human beings.”

  “As to bombs, we’ve scanned for major devices.” Sol chewed the knuckle of his thumb, forehead creased. “Some explosives can be made out of common elements. Is there any way we can put sensors in the ventilation system which would warn us if common compounds were being mixed aboard?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Get Happy to work on that immediately. What else?”

  “The ventilation system itself could be poisoned, gassed, or infected by microorganisms or viruses.”

  “Can we increase filtration and sterilize the filters? Maybe kick up the UV in the purifiers and recirculators?”

  “Affirmative. I am currently upgrading the system to preclude the possibility of tampering with ventilation. Would you like the same done with food and water?”

  “Definitely,” Sol agreed. It would be more difficult with all the gourmet viands which had been brought aboard.

  “Bombs, poisons, chemical and biological agents, tampering—what’s left?” Sol counted them off on his fingers.

  “The other method of sabotage employed for the longest time is one I can’t prevent, Captain.” Was there hesitation behind Boaz’s voice?

  “And that is?”

  “Captain. In a Brotherhood ship, with constant monitoring, other methods can be nullified. I told you earlier, I cannot control human behavior. I am powerless to prevent human assassination of other humans through direct action.“

  Sol stretched his neck to fight the growing headache expanding behind his eyes. “Murder? No, I guess you can’t. And unless I lock them all in their cabins, how can I?”

  CHAPTER XI

  The destruction of the Chorr absorbed her after they finally stumbled onto her. In them she found a new challenge. Chorr reproduced by fission; the complete reduplication of the organism down to the ancestral memories ensued. In the process all experiences up to fission copied into each of the F, generations. The effect proved cumulative; their bodies enlarged to hold the vast store of information. At the same time, she had to adapt herself, enlarging to accommodate their immense bodies and changing her internal atmosphere from methane ammonia—the heritage of the Aan—to oxygen and illuminating her interior with radiation between four to seven thousand angstroms for Chorr eyes. Nor did problems stop there.

  The Chorr who first probed her secrets fissioned with both organisms remaining inside. They split again. Four of the large organisms inhabited her quarters. As the trend continued, dietary needs had to be supplied from outside. The offspring of the original Chorr took their time working the spring, peering into atoms, and studying the universe around them. They worked different systems with relish and denied access to the rest of their race, exchanging knowledge for food.

  The excluded Chorr objected.

  Inside, the Chorr continued to reproduce, expanding through her n-dimensional interior. She found herself baffled. How would she handle this burgeoning population? Of course, the Chorr condemned themselves in the end. Those Chorr beyond her hull refused to provide more food. Ultimatums were issued. The power elite crossed the threshold. They worked the spring against their fellows.

  Food supplies were maintained as the Chorr continued to multiply exponentially within her walls. Protest increased, futile against her Masters. The narcotic of power had been loosed. The Chorr had become intoxicated with their absolute rule. The end would come now, each of her projections proved it.

  Galactic Chorr resources funneled food to the Masters. When carrying capacity had been strained past the limit, the Masters made their final mistake. The system that supported the huge internal population collapsed. The Masters responded, condemning the disobedient to the interstellar abyss. Starvation gnawed at the Masters who turned on each other, devouring whichever among them proved the weakest.

  Several cycles repeated until the final Chorr starved at the helm. None had ever bothered to learn how to use her processors to produce unlimited food.

  She cackled gleefully at the chewed remains littering her interior. Once again organic life had paid for the damning spring.

  * * *

  Fingernails scratched against the thick plates of the ship’s hull. Sol spun around, looking up through the observation blister, to see Fil Cerratanos clawing frantically at the resisting hull material.

  “Fil?”

  Cerratanos turned dead eyes in his direction, mouth working soundlessly in the cold vacuum. Frost tipped his full must
ache. His body charred and twisted, Cerratanos writhed in agony.

  “Fil?” Sol screamed, pasting himself against the transparency to stare at the corpse.

  The haunted, empty eyes pleaded. Nails peeled back from Cerratanos’ bloody fingers as he clawed in desperation. Sol turned to dash for the closed hatch. He palmed the lock plate. The thick white steel remained, cold and immovable. Sol pounded the lock plate, throwing a frightened glance over his shoulder, panicked by the terror in Cerratanos’ expression.

  “Boaz! Open the hatch. Boaz!” The white steel imprisoned him. Sol flipped open the bypass, pressing the emergency button. Nothing happened, the hatch defied him. Futilely, Sol slapped at the steel and glanced back to see Cerratanos’ limp body drifting away, fading into the blackness.

  “Fil?” Sol whimpered. He stumbled over to the transparent blister, to press himself against the glassy material. His panting breath condensed on the cool surface to obscure the tumbling body in a whitish haze.

  “Fil? Oh, God, Fil. Come back. I can’t. . . can’t reach you.” He sobbed his horror into the empty silence of the observation blister.

  “Captain?”

  Sol blinked, snapping awake in his quarters. The lights were on. He’d curled into a fetal ball on the bunk.

  “Captain, please answer me,” Boaz called through her speakers.

  “Here. What’s wrong?”

  “I might ask you the same. You called out to me.”

  “I ... Yes, in the dream.” He sat up, every muscle in his body knotted, a cold clammy sweat on his skin. He rubbed numb hands over his gritty face. “I saw . . . heard Fil Cerratanos. He was scratching at the hull, trying to get in. I was locked in the observation blister. Hatch wouldn’t work so I could go EVA and get him. That’s when I yelled. Lock plate wouldn’t work. I called for you to open it. I was . . . was trapped. And he kept drifting farther and farther away . . . left behind.”