“What do you think the dream means?
“I ... I’m losing them. Leaving them behind.”
“Very good. At the same time, I would suggest that you consider the message your subconscious sent you. In the dream, the hatch held you back. Captain, I would suggest that, at least in your subconscious, I was responsible for your failure to reach Cerratanos. Dreams are a means for the brain to express deep-seated concerns to those wise enough to listen.”
Sol nodded and exhaled. “Yes, they are.”
“I suggest that you give your dreams some thought. They’re a signal which should not be ignored. If I can be of assistance, please do not hesitate to—”
“Thank you, ship. I-I’m going for a walk. Maybe conduct an inspection.” He stood. Pulling on his uniform, he palmed the hatch.
“Captain. I—”
“No, ship. I’ve got to work this out myself.”
“Very well.”
Empty paces took him down the long corridors. He couldn’t still the icy foreboding. Even in the long white halls, he could feel Cerratanos’ dead eyes upon him.
We walked into a comm room to the sound of whoops and hollers. New crew, people he didn’t know. They huddled over a holobox where two Arcturian teams played basketball in zero g.
Sol stood stiffly until one man looked up, going silent. Eyes turned his way. Cerratanos drifted dead among the stars while they enjoyed themselves.
“Hi, Captain. Want to-”
“I take it this is a duty station?”
“Yes, sir. Not much happening since comm’s mostly dead at this hour. The transmission just completed for the game so we—”
“Then you’ll be on watch on the comm. Unless you’d rather be on watch on report. Damn it, people, this is deep space. You’ll be on your toes, or you’ll be off my ship! Am I UNDERSTOOD?”
“Yes, sir!”
Three bodies jumped for the monitor stations.
Sol stalked out. I didn‘t need to snap. Maybe I was too rough . . . Cerratanos is dead. So many are dead. Don’t they realize? The universe isn’t for fun and games and . . . DAMN IT! WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME?
He stopped, fists clenched, and leaned against the cool bulkheads, possessed by an unaccountable anguish.
* * *
Speaker Archon reclined thoughtfully in a gravchair, legs up, arms crossed over his stomach. He stared down the length of the large gymnasium, admiring its white, padded walls, gleaming weight machines, and the airy lightness of the place. Incredible! How extraordinary that the Brotherhood included such advanced and sophisticated exercise systems. Keeping people fit in spacecraft had been a perpetual problem until the practical adaptation of artificially induced gravity. Man remained a wild animal, a creature whose very health demanded exercise. His eyes went back to where Connie hovered in midair, body gracefully twisting, whirling, and kicking to some cadence in her head. The long braid of red-gold hair made the illusion all the more enticing.
Archon’s heart fluttered. But then a parent deserved to take pride in a child, and Constance forever reminded him of Myra. And when she danced like this, it took him back to that day on Mars when he first laid eyes on the woman he’d love for the rest of his life. With a series of somersaults Connie lifted, touched off the ceiling, and bounced angles off the walls until she reached the gravity control. Archon experienced the sensation of his skin sagging under the returned pull.
Damp with perspiration, pale flesh flushed with exertion, she flashed him a smile before stepping into the shower. Archon sipped at his drink until she exited and began dressing.
“You get better and better, girl. I truly think you could make a profession out of it. Too much of your mother in you.”
She laughed, eyes lighting with satisfaction. “Elvina Young would refuse to talk to me again. Blessed gods, think of that!”
“And that would be a loss?” Archon asked, a sour twist to his lips. He paused, “She’s sure been after poor Carrasco. If I didn’t know Mormons better, I’d say she was flirting.”
“She is. Texahi is drooling all over himself. Joseph seems oblivious—but then, he’s not very smart.”
Connie settled on the chair arm and nodded as two crewmen walked in, waved, and reset the gravity. Connie stood, fought her way to a second chair, and maneuvered it next to Archon’s. The crewmen set up a racecourse as obstacles sprouted from the walls. The men stripped and began chasing each other in the 1.5 gravity, muscles straining.
“Joseph Young is a bland sort of sop, isn’t he? I’ve never met anyone as boring.” Archon absently watched the crewmen who were panting and laughing as they chased each other. “And what do you think of Solomon Carrasco?”
“Maybe we should discuss this someplace more private?”
“Keep your voice down, and act normal. No one would suspect us of a nefarious conversation out here in the open. And the crewmen? They’re occupied with their race. They don’t have the concentration to spare. But do keep an eye on them.”
“Carrasco? He’s an attractive man. But something’s eating him deep inside. There are times talking to him when I get a little flash of intuition that says back off. And you didn’t see him that day in the observation blister. Like a different man.”
“You saw the holos,” Archon reminded. “From what Kraal showed us, I’m surprised he survived ... let alone that they could rebuild him. My God, those holos gave me nightmares.”
“I just wish we ... Well, I still question your decision to include him. And if those two ships paralleling us are hostile? Will he break? Given the choice between turning us over and saving the ship, which option do you think he’ll take?”
“Do you really think I made a mistake asking for him?”
She closed her eyes, letting her body relax as the crewmen, panting and sweating, pounded past. As they topped the hurdles and charged away, she responded, “I don’t know. I wonder if he’s still the same man you think he is. I’d feel better if we had an out, some way to—”
“Kraal gave you that. If Carrasco fails, the responsibility becomes yours.” He made a motion with his hands. “I just wanted Carrasco. You were there, you saw him fight his way out that day. He was brilliant and he did the impossible—he won.”
Connie breathed deeply, muscular body going limp in the chair. “Then we’re safe—so long as that man didn’t die with Sword.”
* * *
“I don’t like it,” Bryana told Arturian as she relieved him from his watch. “Those ships are closing, and we’re just diddling along at twenty gravities of acceleration. All we have to do is power up and we can leave them nothing but a string of plasma to admire.”
Art’s face reflected disgust. “Hell, I don’t know what we’re doing. Ask the hero! He says it doesn’t matter; they know where we’re going anyway. Maybe he’s worried about all the station types—making the ride smooth for them.”
“They won’t think it’s smooth if those are pirate craft and we have to duck blaster bolts. You think Carrasco will fight? Or will he figure they’ve already won so there’s no sense?”
Art shot her an assenting look. “If it comes to that, we’ll . . . well, the book gives us options. I’ve heard a couple of grumblings from the crew. That Carrasco’s jumped them for no reason. The new people, like us, who wanted to space with Dart are starting to complain. I guess there’ve been a couple of incidents. People say he looks real spooky when he dresses them down. Pale. Scared.”
Bryana crossed her arms and tilted her head, black hair glistening in the bridge lights. “There might be another way to get him out of the picture. Boat, from a psychological perspective, what are the chances that Solomon Carrasco will be incapable of performing his duties under severe stress?“
The ship’s speaker replied immediately. “I have insufficient data, Bryana. From his past behavior, he seems most capable in emergency situations. Beyond that, I will not speculate since it would only serve to destabilize the situation.”
“He lost th
ree ships!” Art cried out.
“He also brought them home against all odds,” Boaz replied. “I don’t exactly understand the reasons why you object so vehemently to Solomon Carrasco. His problems adjusting to the needs of—”
“Consider his actions on the bridge as we left Arcturus,” Bryana pointed out. “The man was a mess. He seemed to be on the verge of falling apart. Look, he may have been great once, but humans break under stress. If the stories they tell are true, he was a whimpering wreck when they dug him out of Gage. Trauma, Boaz—as you well know from psych records—changes the way the human brain works.”
“I think it’s political,” Art decided. “Someone feels they owe it to poor Solomon Carrasco to let him have another chance. But why do we—”
“Negative,” Boaz responded. “The Captain specifically did not want this assignment. He took it only at the personal request of Galactic Grand Master Kraal.”
“Then what’s bothering him?” Bryana demanded.
“The same thing which bothers you in the end, First Officer: responsibility.”
* * *
“The man is weird! I tell you, a lunatic!”
“Please, Mr. Hitavia, you must understand—”
“Understand what? He’s crazy!”
Constance rounded the corner, to see Amahara standing, hands up, pleading, a look of panic on his face. Gratefully, he turned to Connie.
“Please, will you explain to the honorable representative from Reinland that Norik Ngoro isn’t—”
“He’s berserk!”
“Why don’t you both slow down and tell me what this is all about.”
“Hitavia tried to kill Norik.” Amahara shook his head in confusion. “I . . . I got to them before any harm was done. I sent Norik off to our room where—”
“The man demanded of me . . . demanded! Like I was some sort of common peasant!” Hitavia paced angrily, his Lapp features burning red, the veins standing from his bulging forehead, pale blue eyes inflamed. A fist waved in the air as he continued. “What right does Ngoro have to question my integrity like that?” He spun, a stiff finger darting at Connie like an ancestral spear. “No one . . . NO ONE tries to twist my words like that. The implication was that I didn’t have a moral foundation for the decisions I make in my private life, let alone my public one! I’m NOT a damn bug in ajar for Ngoro . . . or anyone else for that matter!”
Amahara rocked nervously from foot to foot, wringing his hands, panic glazing his eyes. “Mr. Representative, what you do with Mrs. Young is your business. I surely don’t care that you and she—”
Hitavia lunged, Amahara sliding away from the gripping fingers, while a cry stifled in his throat.
“Enough!” Connie leapt between the two men, one hand on the Reinlander’s chest. She took a deep breath, eyes locked with the livid Hitavia’s. “I think the matter can be ended right here. Listen, we’ve got enough troubles before us at Star’s Rest. Amahara, Norik is a Truth Sayer. If I ask him—based on judicial precedent—to keep his tongue about this, will he?”
“Yes, ma’am. I swear on the burial tanks of my station. He will.”
“And will you forget it, Amahara? Not a word to anyone?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I swear on the burial tanks of my—”
“We’ve got an understanding of the depths of your honor, Amahara. And you, Mikhi? Is that satisfactory?”
Hitavia threw a venomous glance at Amahara. “I . . . All right, I’m satisfied.” So saying, he spun on a heel, long legs eating distance until he rounded a corner and disappeared.
Connie blew a sigh of relief as feet came pounding down the corridor. Solomon Carrasco, uniform hastily yanked over his muscular torso, burst from a companionway, sliding to a stop. Panting slightly, eyes muzzy from sleep, he asked, “Is there a disturbance here?”
Connie shot a quick glance at Amahara whose fragile features had gone ashen. “I think it’s under control. Just a small misunderstanding.”
“With Ngoro?” Sol raised an eyebrow, looking at Amahara. “Concerning his quest?”
Amahara nodded quickly. “He’s close. He told me he’ll have the answer by tomorrow. I don’t think he expected Hitavia to—”
“Hitavia? That’s who he’s suspicious of?”
“I ... No, no, I don’t mean that. Captain, please, this is all out of control. Out of control, you see. It’s nothing. Please. It’s really nothing. Norik says he will know by tomorrow. He’s discussed it with me. When he’s sure, we’ll call you. Let you know what he suspects— and why. I promise.”
Sol nodded shortly, speculative eyes on Connie. “All right, Amahara. Go and check on Norik.”
Connie watched the aide zip down the hall, sandal-clad feet pattering lightly as he hurried for the personal quarters.
“That was a quick response, Captain. You monitoring the halls?” she asked.
Sol hesitated just enough to make her suspicious. “No, evidently you weren’t the only person to hear it.” He smiled wryly. “They did make a lot of noise. Hitavia screaming, ‘I’ll kill you, you meddling bastard’ at the top of his lungs doesn’t exactly take snooper equipment in the corridors.”
She laughed softly, remembering the ruckus. “No, I suppose not. Um, don’t let your fashion designer know, but I think the hem of the tunic is supposed to be straight, not off by ten centimeters. And don’t look now, but you forgot to fasten your fly.”
The color drained from Carrasco’s stricken face. “Excuse me while I escape around the corner like a phantom in the night.”
Connie crossed her arms, leaning up against the bulkhead, chuckling to herself until a more presentable Carrasco reappeared, a slightly mollified look on his normally worried features.
“Well, I’d just drifted off to sleep.” He raised apologetic hands. “Then comm goes off and I’m practically putting the uniform on at a run. Besides, I’m not used to Brotherhood dress uniforms. Normally, on a deep space survey, I’m in casual dress the whole time. It’s only these highbrow . . . er, excuse me.”
She waved it away. “Quite all right. I don’t fit high social status anyway.”
He grunted, brown eyes evaluative. “Uh, if you don’t mind my asking, it’s a little late, isn’t it? I mean we’re in the middle of third watch. Everyone else is sleeping.”
She pulled gleaming long hair over a shoulder, twisting it into a red-gold cable, and laughed. “Well, would it surprise you if I told you I haven’t been sleeping much recently? I just thought I’d go sit in the observation blister and look at the stars. Kind of . . .”
“Kind of soothing to stare out there.” He finished, turning, arm extended. She took it, though she still felt that click of reservation deep inside, that instinctive mistrust. “I do it myself,” Carrasco continued, as they walked. “Out there, in all the peace, I lose myself—put things in perspective.”
“It’s not all that peaceful—not when you consider solar physics in something like a Bl star. Space is a violent and tortured place despite our perceptions to the contrary. Hell would be tamer.”
Carrasco swallowed hard, equanimity gone. “Are you always so pragmatic?”
She lifted a shoulder and sighed. “Yes, I suppose so. To be honest, it’s been so long since I really laughed, maybe IVe forgotten how. I never planned to grow up quite this quick. Understand? Here I am, wishing I had time to space without any responsibilities. Just to accelerate and jump and see what I found out where no human had gone before. After Arpeggio we did that . . . and found Star’s Rest. And responsibility. I’m Deputy Speaker for my planet, and, I guess, for my people. Funny, I don’t feel like a ruler. I feel like a spacer, an explorer.”
They walked into the observation blister. Beyond the transparent graphite, the gray-white dusting of stars shimmered, stark in the blackness of the void. “And you can’t leave it with your father for a few years and do that? He’s quite capable.”
She smiled wistfully. “Maybe when we’ve finished this business to my satisfaction. If
there’s time then.”
“And this ‘business’?”
She let go of his arm, amazed at how naturally she’d held it, aware of his warmth through the fabric. “Still trying, Captain? Always seeking to work in a lever in an attempt to pry out the truth?” She shook her head. “No, not yet. Too many people like Ngoro are suspicious. Nikita Malakova’s nose is in the wind, too. I’ve encountered too many people in the last couple of months whose motives I don’t trust. And no, I don’t trust you. Not because I believe you’re untrustworthy, but because I know the gravity of what we’re about. I’ve even ceased to trust my own father. Not because he’s on the wrong side, or because he isn’t my closest ally, but I know the stakes, Captain. And they scare unholy hell out of me.”
He remained silent, watching her, nodding slightly.
“It’s because in the final analysis, I’m the only person I can count on.”
He crossed his arms, leaning back against the bulkhead, one foot up on the spectrometer. “I suppose in the end, that’s all any of us have. Ourselves.”
She braced a hip against the cool metal of the telescope and pulled up a knee, lacing long fingers to support it. “I’m glad you can comprehend that ... at least in an intellectual way. Maybe it’s my pragmatism again?”
“More of the game?”
“Well. . . you never answered my question last time.”
Carrasco dropped his chin to his broad chest. “Oh, IVe thought about it. To date, I don’t have an answer.
My first inclination was naturally to take the power— right the wrongs. Then, when I thought about it, I got to wondering about all the ramifications.“ He studied her soberly. ”Tell me, doesn’t it ever bother you that God doesn’t play a more important role in the universe? I mean, consider . . . depending on what you assume about God, he could change a great deal—but when you do, say, blast Arpeggio into radioactive slag, how many lives have you changed? You’re fooling with the future. Anyone who takes ultimate power—and uses it to reform the universe—remakes it in his own image.“ He slapped a nervous hand against his leg, voice dropping. ”And, Constance, I’m not perfect. Therefore, anything I make of the universe will, of necessity, have those flaws integral to the reformation.“
W Michael Gear Page 17
