W Michael Gear

by The Artifact (v3. 1) (epub)

  “But I’ll have missed Desseret by—”

  “No, ma’am. You’ll still have as many days to festival as you do now. You see the effect—”

  “But, Captain! At dinner last night, you told me specifically that we would be outside for almost two weeks! How can we be outside for two weeks and not miss Desseret?”

  “Would you believe that we don’t exist for the moment?”

  She gave him a radiant smile, blue eyes twinkling. “Captain, really!”

  “Yes, really. You see, everything that makes us up is now in a different phase-change. We’re not in our universe anymore. We’re beyond the time-space continuum . . . beyond the light boundary. It’s a function of mass and velocity which is manipulated by means of our shielding—the same effect which keeps our antimatter fuel from exploding. If we cut power to the shielding all of a sudden, we drop back into regular space. Time can’t pass if we’re not in the universe. It’s a permutation of conservation of energy.”

  She nodded slightly, a baffled look in her eyes. “I still need to talk to my dressmaker within three days, Captain. Can I use your comm?”

  He shook his head. “As I said, it wouldn’t make any difference, jumping the light barrier—”

  “Ah, you men.” She sighed, eyes eating him alive. “Are you a poet at heart, Captain? Such a marvelous idea, to jump light. Think of the romantic images it conjures in the mind. I’d like to think I was a poet, too. % Dominated by the passions of the heart. And you, Captain?”

  Sol kicked a circuit open, the resultant heterodyne singing loudly. He winced at the noise. “Whoops, sorry, Mrs. Young. That’s engineering for you. I’m sure you can understand if I have to cut this short. Excuse me.” He cut the system, leaning back in the command chair, exhaling.

  “Jumping lights, for God’s sake? And she wants a dress for the Desseret Festival? Out here?” Sol sipped his coffee, grumbling, “Hitavia and Texahi must be out of their minds.”

  He chuckled as he dug into his space pouch.

  “Humor, Captain?” Boaz wondered. “Most think she’s an incredible irritant. Or attraction, depending upon the circumstances and ploy she assumes for her—”

  “I call her an ignorant nuisance, good ship.” He pulled out the envelope handed to him on the docks. The sight of it triggered memories of blood and body parts. He opened the chem coded paper, finding a message disk inside. Almost hesitantly, he slipped it into Boaz’s system.

  Kraal’s antique face formed on the comm. “Greetings, Captain Carrasco. By now you’re in the jump. Hopefully all has gone well ... or I would have ordered you to destroy this message as obsolete by now.

  “Sol, in the past you’ve given heart and soul in the service of the Craft. To be honest, after so much sacrifice on your part, I didn’t know if I was right to call on you again. The Speaker, however, for reasons of his own, requested you.”

  “Uh-huh, great reasons, Grand Master,” Sol muttered.

  “Considering the Speaker’s position in this matter, I couldn’t help but agree. It seems he has faith in your very humanity. Perhaps, in our current cynical age, that’s not such a bad criterion to employ.

  “As to the nature of your mission, the divulgence of that will remain up to the Speaker. For the moment, you are ordered to turn yourself and your command, over to the Speaker of Star’s Rest—or the Deputy Speaker as the case may be. I told you in person that you would be responsible to them. I’m now making it official. Those orders are now part of the record, and may be retrieved by any officer aboard.

  “Sol, I hate to put you in this position, but I have every faith you will acquit yourself with honor and dignity as is becoming a Master of the Craft. If the Speaker has confided in you, you know the reasons for these extraordinary measures. If he’s decided to wait, I believe you’ll find all our precautions well within reason.” Kraal smiled wearily. “I’ve always taught that the end didn’t justify the means—until now. I find a bitter lesson in that.

  “I thank you for your patience and place my trust in your abilities. Good luck, Solomon, you and your crew must succeed at any price.”

  The monitor went blank.

  Sol stared into his coffee cup, vaguely aware of the reflections of the light panels overhead. And Connie

  makes word games out of Godhead? What the hell is the angle here? And if it’s that all-fired serious, and it looks like I’ll lose this ship? What, then? Damn them, I can’t be an impartial player in this! I’m only a single human being—with a lot of ghosts looking over my shoulder.

  He steeled himself. “Damn it, what if I can’t ...” He closed his eyes, fingers tightening around his coffee cup until the tendons stood from the back of his hands.

  “Captain?”

  “I’m fine, Boaz, just going through the usual soul-searching you should have become accustomed to by now.” He shook his head. “You know, it’s so easy to be a hero in a story or play. Damn it, reality is a pain in the ass.”

  “Indeed?”

  He nodded humbly. “They’ve made me a legend. Iron Carrasco, the man who always brings them back. Kraal seems to understand the truth. But Archon? He thinks I’m some sort of superhero. Why? Because I was driven to desperation off Arpeggio—not because I knew what the hell I was doing!” He chuckled nervously, eyes darting. “And here I sit, a psychological basket case trying to keep all the ends together.”

  “Perhaps, Captain, that’s the reality of heroes? Perhaps that’s the truth behind the myth? Perhaps you’re no different than any of the others have ever been?”

  He took a deep breath. “Perhaps. Well, now that I’ve had my little bout of shakes and sorrows, I’d better get on with this.

  “Kraal laid it all out, didn’t he? All official and neat.” Sol sucked at his lower lip and shook his head. “Boaz, open a line to the Speaker.”

  Archon’s grizzled face filled the monitor. He, too, looked weary. “Yes, Captain?”

  Sol steeled himself. “Speaker, if you would do me the honor, could you come to the bridge?”

  Archon’s expression hardened. “I’m on my way, Captain.”

  The monitor flickered off.

  Sol stared at the main monitor for a moment, watching the lime green pinpoints of gravity wells slip behind them, more forming on the monitor ahead. “Well, Boaz, for a man who really didn’t want this command, turning loose of it hurts.” He stared up dully. “Do you realize? After a fashion, I’ve just lost another ship.”

  “It has happened before, Captain. The instances are not a matter of record in the general files. If I could, I might note that when such situations have occurred, those in your place have accepted their duty with dignity and honor to the Craft.”

  Sol glanced up. “Advice, good ship?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Sol hesitated, an ache in his soul. “Taken and accepted, Boaz. Oh, and one other thing. Thank you.”

  Her voice echoed with warmth. “Most welcome, Captain.”

  Sol sipped his coffee, the taste bitter on his tongue. Resistance had fled, he simply waited, savoring the moments for what they were, unable to think ahead. He had gone emotionally and mentally numb.

  “The Speaker is at the hatch,” Boaz informed. “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be. Pass him, good ship.”

  Archon entered and looked curiously about the bridge. He took the command chair Sol pointed to, trying not to gawk with a spacer’s fascination for command centers and the way they were designed.

  “What sort of crisis do we face now?” Archon lifted a gray forest of eyebrow.

  “We face none, Speaker. The problem is mine. I have just been ordered to turn my command over to you.” His mouth had gone dry, the taste of coffee stale. “I’ll replay the orders if you wish.”

  Archon frowned, running thick fingers through his mat of beard as he considered. “If you don’t mind, please.”

  “Boaz, rerun the Galactic Grand Master’s message.”

  Archon watched, chin propp
ed on an elbow. After Kraal’s face faded, he turned to Sol. “I don’t know what to tell you. I knew we had that option—but I didn’t quite expect Kraal to simply dump it in my lap. Have you told your crew? How will they react? I mean, command loyalty is the fiber of—”

  “I called you first thing. I thought I should talk to you.”

  Archon nodded. “I see. Well, what do you suggest? I mean, Captain, command is a very delicate thing. Myself, I served under many flags ... but the ships were always mine. Had I been ordered to turn over command to another? Well, I think I know how you feel.”

  Sol waited, fingering his coffee cup. Finally, he took a deep breath. “Speaker, the final decision is yours—and be aware that I’ll cheerfully abide by your order—but let me suggest that you assume a silent command. My First Officers will be informed and Kraal’s commands will rule them. In the meantime, we’ll proceed as before. I’ll control the crew and subject myself to your every wish and demand. I think, in the long run, we’ll have less trouble that way.”

  Archon nodded thoughtfully. “Agreed, Captain. You realize that should I become incapacitated, my daughter will take my place immediately.”

  “I’m well aware of that. She’s earned my fullest respect.” Sol handed him a cup of coifee. “Now, mind telling me what this is all about?”

  “The conference will—”

  “Please, could we go beyond that charade?”

  Archon’s gray eyes bored into his. “It’s not charade, Captain.” He hesitated, weighing his words. “It’s not the entire truth either. Suffice it to say, I can’t tell you yet. I don’t hesitate to remind you that we don’t travel among friendly interests. In this day and age, with psych developed to the extent it is, no secret can be kept. We still haven’t determined who Ngoro’s murderer is. The individual who sabotaged the comm still sends shivers down my spine. That cassette might just as easily have been a bomb.”

  “Those unfriendly interests might employ the same psych methods to interrogate you,” Sol reminded.

  Archon smiled. “Indeed they might . . . and I feel lucky that Connie and I have avoided that so far. But your Brotherhood is most ingenious when it comes to devices. Your people gave me the means to take my secret where no one but God may pry it from me. In my chest is a device which will clean out a large room. Another in my leg is tailored to other circumstances. And, last but not least, I can simply go to sleep without pain—and no one the wiser. The same is true for Connie. What? You look surprised, Captain. How many times have I told you we could take no chances? I see your skepticism, but yes, the stakes are that high.“

  Sol fumbled for words. “I ... I think I’ll be a little more nervous around Connie next time.”

  Archon chuckled, a glint in his eyes. “Indeed, Captain? Oh, I wouldn’t get too concerned about the bomb Kraal planted in her. Believe me, after having raised her, that’s the least of her potential hazards. Why, that kid was in more trouble than you’d believe. The ships, always the ships. I think she’s got reaction mass in her blood. Couldn’t settle her on a planet if it was the last thing I did.”

  Sol sipped his coffee, watching Archon’s expression soften as he stared into the past.

  “You did very well with her, Speaker. She’s quite a capable woman. You should be proud.”

  The Speaker grunted. “A success to balance a failure?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Connie said she told you about Rodger.”

  “I still don’t understand it all. I’m not sure any more need be said, either. Let’s allow the past to take care of itself. We couldn’t change it if we wanted.”

  “Agreed.” Archon’s lips curled faintly, gaze drifting to the stats from old habit.

  “And after this business is over?”

  Archon shrugged. “My spacing days have run their course, Captain. I’m a leader of a world now. Curious where fate leads us. I expected to die in a burst of plasma someplace, send my elements back to the stars that nourished me. Now, I’ll be buried in the rich dirt of Star’s Rest.”

  “And Connie will become your heir?”

  “If the people want her.” Archon shook his head. “And if she’ll stay. Like I said, the ships draw her onward, ever onward. For the moment, she’s struggling under an incredible burden. When it’s all over, I expect she’ll pile everything on poor Claude Mason and space to someplace where she can find a ship. But no, we’re not establishing a royal line.”

  “Jordan seems to consider her eligible.”

  “Bah! The man’s a fool. No, she’s not likely to fall for a fop like Jordan—even if he promises her a world or two. She’s been on the hard side too long.” Archon shifted, studying Sol craftily. “On the other hand, offer her a ship like Boaz and you might be able to get her.”

  Sol’s throat constricted. “I beg your pardon?”

  Archon grinned. “Oh, IVe seen you watching her, Captain. And IVe seen her watching you back when you didn’t know it.”

  “Speaker, I assure you, I—”

  “Shut up, Solomon. I’m too damned old to be jerked around by protestations of either innocence or virtue. She’s an attractive woman and I’ve grown used to the interest paid her by men. Proud of it in fact.”

  “Speaker, I’m the Captain of the Boaz. I’m not in a position to engage in a relationship. Even if she were interested . . . which I suspect she isn’t, considering some of our conversations, she has her duty and I have mine.”

  Archon grunted, “Uh-huh. Well, unless there’s something else, I’d best get back to my administrative backlog. Great thing about jump. You can catch up on your work.” He stood. “As to the command, Solomon, I have every faith in you. Proceed as you normally would and don’t bother me with administrative details.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Archon stopped at the hatch. “But as to Connie, you’re on your own there, boy.” He winked wryly. “So . . . good luck.”

  Sol felt curiously flustered as he stared at the hatch.

  * * *

  Nikita frowned distrustfully before Lietov’s hatch. “Representative Malakova to see Assistant Director Lietov.”

  The hatch slid aside to allow Nikita to stroll into the Sirian’s personal quarters. As he suspected, the room— a carbon copy of his own—appeared neat, everything in order. Lietov rose from behind a comm table, smiling as he extended a hand.

  “Good of you to come, Nikita. Brandy?”

  “A small glass.”

  Lietov strolled over to an intricately-carved sandwood cabinet latched to the wall. He opened the doors to expose scarlet velvet padding which cradled snifters. From solid platinum dispensers, he poured two glasses.

  “To your health, Representative.” Lietov smiled with satisfaction as he clinked Nikita’s glass in toast.

  “To yours.” And may your Sirian swine choke on it. Very well, what is your angle, Lietov? Considering all the times Gulag has voted to cut your throat, what do you seek from me? Is this reconciliation—or threat? Nikita sighed at the rich sensation of the fine liquor on his palate.

  Lietov gestured to an antigrav, seating himself opposite, crossing his legs as he leaned back. “So far the Brotherhood has provided us a most pleasant spacing.” He indicated the room. “Not quite a luxury liner, but everything seems to work despite its Spartan nature.”

  “Brotherhood does not build for luxury.” Nikita shrugged. “Compared topmost stations in Gulag, I roll in bourgeois bliss.” He sniffed, pointing at his nose. “Is no odor of hydroponics to stick in nose—reminder of eventual destination of physical self.”

  Lietov’s slight nod of understanding entertained and irritated at the same time. Even through the years, Nikita still hadn’t been able to shake his dislike of the privileged and powerful.

  “Nikita.” Lietov scowled down at his brandy. “I understand conditions in Gulag Sector aren’t what they are around the rest of the Confederacy. Despite the optimism of the Soviets, the resource base just doesn’t support the kind of growth— “

  “Bah! So
viets knew what they were doing. Threw my ancestors out to starve in interstellar waste processing chondritic asteroids for radiation protection and what little metal and water could be extracted to keep workers alive. Is analogous to old prison rock pile scenario.”

  Lietov grunted, jaw working as if he nibbled at something hidden in his mouth. “You know, part of that is Gulag’s own fault. Every time an investor looks seriously at pumping money into resource procurement, one of the stations vetoes it. I know for a fact that a significant graphite fiber industry could be developed in the Taiga belt region. Everything’s there. Carbonaceous asteroids by the billions to make light-years of fiber. Enough helium-three’s floating around to light half the Sector. You’ve got the people to run the tugs and miners, everything but the metals and technology to make the system work. What’s Gulag’s major export now? Agriculture, for God’s sake! And you’re producing at only a couple of points above the subsistence level at that!”

  “And you would change this?” Nikita reached up to scratch under his bush of beard. Ah-ha! Here comes sales pitch. What does he promise? Moon, stars, and unlimited galaxies ?

  “All it takes is capital—and the reassurances that one station won’t sabotage the entire project because their neighbors happen to be getting ahead. Those things can be worked out given the will.”

  “And Sirius would do this?”

  “It could be arranged.”

  Nikita grinned, swirling his brandy to watch the light in the amber fluid. “And what do you want for this tremendous foothold in future?”

  Lietov cradled the snifter like a globe. “Support. You’re a powerful man, Nikita. Not many people like you—most think you’re a bombastic barbarian, as a matter of fact. But they respect you because of what you believe and because you make a powerful enemy. Currently, Sirius is in need of friends. We have substantial investment capital—and we’re looking for new directions.”

  “Uh-huh.” Nikita gazed intently into the reflection from the glass. “Gulag, as you well know, Mark, doesn’t follow any man’s lead. My constituents—”