Pathfinder

by Laura E. Reeve

  Diana focused on the maintenance tech again, and grimaced. “Sorry. Had problems sleeping.” That wasn’t a complete lie, but the root cause was the misery fogging her head and heart. When Matt left, she thought she’d be fine with frequent calls to Aether’s Touch, but the calls didn’t stave off loneliness for the Matt-shaped void in her life.

  “I can understand, with everything that’s happened recently.” He gave her a sympathetic smile. Oleander wished, desperately, that she could remember his name. A nice man, with the ageless look the generational got after years of journeys that stretched out time. He’d probably been born before her great-grandfather.

  “You were saying . . . ?” She motioned vaguely at the cold stainless steel table, where the blackened pieces of a maintenance bot rested.

  “Our cursory audit of the surviving logs hasn’t proven anything, except the bot was hijacked. We’ve sent evidence on to the cybernetics unit for analysis.” He picked up a hand-size fragment of casing. “Since bots don’t have the aerogel armor that ships do, the shrapnel literally blew it to bits.”

  “Were you able to recover all the pieces?”

  “About ninety-five percent. Unfortunately, due to its time in space and the effects of the explosion, we haven’t found any fingerprints or biological samples for DNA analysis.”

  “Or the saboteur was careful not to leave any evidence,” she said.

  “Possibly. This time, however, State Prince Duval can’t complain about tainted evidence. Only Pilgrimage personnel handled the salvage and we documented each piece extensively and maintained the chain of custody.”

  “Since you mention Duval, I’m guessing the evidence points toward a Terran saboteur.”

  “Terran explosives,” the tech corrected. “We’ve identified the composition as Terran, specifically manufactured for the military at Teller’s Colony—”

  “From approximately 2090 to 2096,” Oleander finished. “Such as the device planted in Sergeant Joyce’s room. Could anyone get physical access to the bot to plant the device?”

  The tech gave her an anemic smile and hedged. “Well, we never had this situation before.”

  “Please tell me they’re controlled, or under observation, at all times.” Through the long window on one side of the maintenance bay, she saw mechanics hanging bots on a revolving storage device.

  The tech shook his head. “We’ve never needed to maintain physical security on the maintenance bots. There are unsupervised storage and dispersal bays on every docking level. But they had to crack password-controlled security to change the bot’s programming,” he added stoutly.

  “Hmm.” Oleander had no response; she was realizing how overtrusting one could become in a cloistered environment. For decades, this generational crew had been on the Pilgrimage with no exposure to human malignancy. The enemy had been their environment. Now they were having difficulty adjusting their protective instincts.

  “Thanks—look forward to your full report.” Having forgotten the tech’s name, she pointed to the base of her ear in a harassed fashion as she backed away. “I’ve got to call my superior.”

  Standing beside the hatch to the corridor, she called Captain Floros. She was surprised she had to leave a message; as a compulsive multitasker, Floros usually picked up personal calls. Halfway through her bleak report, she received a familiar poke in the shoulder.

  Myron, the senator’s aide and great- nephew, had quietly entered the maintenance bay.

  “—Because there’s no supervision of the equipment in storage.” She finished the message quickly, noting the anticipation that lit Myron’s flat eyes.

  “Yes?” she asked, using a deliberate and cold tone.

  “I’ve got a summons for you.”

  “For what?”

  He tapped his slate and motioned. When he figured out that the bulkhead wasn’t going to display anything, he handed the slate to her.

  She looked over the summons, trying to interpret the legalese. “This statement and questioning is required by Senator Stephanos, not the ICT?”

  “Yes. The Senator has acquiesced to review AFCAW’s part in the recent catastrophe.” A smirk twitched his lip and quickly disappeared. “This is in everyone’s best interest; get the facts documented before anyone starts pointing fingers or criticizing.”

  “What do you mean, our part in the catastrophe?”

  “I suppose it’s more accurate to say AFCAW’s performance is being evaluated. All crew members are recalled to duty stations, to assist with the audit. All data and logs on the Bright Crescent are temporarily confiscated for examination.”

  Scrolling through the summons, she saw her schedule. She was booked for several days. “What about my work for Pilgrimage security, regarding the murder and sabotage?”

  “The only thing that takes precedence over this summons would be a call to testify for the ICT. You understand, Lieutenant.” He nodded, that frightening emptiness flooding his eyes again.

  No, she didn’t understand.

  Ariane went back to the corridor, where she found Matt chatting affably with that lunatic bitch Sabina. She hesitated in surprise, but made sure she was moving through the hatch when they both noticed her. Matt’s smile widened as he relaxed; Sabina’s face went blank and her posture tensed.

  As she approached, she heard Sabina say, “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Journey.”

  Sabina smiled sweetly at Matt, turned, and walked past Ariane with a cold nod. They were almost the same height; Sabina had a very un-Terran-like dainty physique. Her recent skin-do, also uncharacteristic for a Terran, was fading in a natural way that could only be provided by expensive salons. Her short, red, almost burgundy, hair cupped her head and neatly stayed behind ears pierced with three small studs of precious stones. As she stepped, using a gymnast’s prance, her smooth gray jumpsuit showed muscular ripples in her legs, stomach, and arms.

  When she reached Matt, Ariane crossed her arms and watched Sabina enter the hatch she’d just exited. “You’ve got to appreciate the Terran fashion sense—don’t they wear anything but muddy colors?”

  “Huh? Color?” Matt was also watching Sabina’s backside. “Why bother with color?”

  “Yeah, why bother?” Ariane echoed, glancing slyly at her employer. “Spoken like true ship-born-and-raised. But I’m warning you: Watch out for her.”

  “Why? She seemed nice enough. She welcomed me to Beta Priamos and offered to show me around.”

  “Sure, she’s a model tour guide when she’s not beating visitors to a pulp.”

  “What?” Matt snapped out of his reverie at her caustic tone.

  “Never mind.”

  “What did Parmet want?”

  “He had concerns about security.” This was true, although her mouth tasted as bitter as if she’d lied.

  “That’s all?” Matt’s voice became sharp. “He didn’t act, er, improper?”

  “Improper?”

  Matt wouldn’t meet her gaze. “He’s obsessed with you, but it feels—it feels sexual.”

  Her eyes widened. “What?”

  “I can see the signs. It’s a guy thing.”

  “You’re selling shit from the Great Bull itself.” She pictured Parmet, feeling revolted, but it only took a moment for her brain to find the absurdity of the suggestion. She almost laughed. “Don’t put Emotional Analyst on your resume yet, Matt. He played you. He’s an expert in somaural projection.”

  “Ah.” Matt blinked. “But why would Parmet want to mislead me?”

  She shook off her disquiet. “Maybe he just wanted to mess with you and me. He likes to manipulate people.”

  “Like that bastard Edones?” Matt frowned.

  “I suppose so.” She nodded and they continued walking. There was no point in protesting the differences between Owen and Parmet. Matt had long ago made up his mind about Owen, calling him manipulative, secretive, dangerous, and egotistical. While she’d agree with the first three traits, she suspected Owen was more complicated than M
att gave him credit for.

  They were almost late for their contract kick-off meeting, an unpardonable sin. Matt picked up speed and she hurried to follow, glancing at him thoughtfully. It was indeed a festering question: Why would Parmet want to manipulate Matt?

  As Isrid expected, Sabina showed up immediately after Kedros left.

  “It’s a mistake to bring her into this.” Sabina walked up to the table, placed her palms on the surface and leaned over toward him, providing him a perfect view of her cleavage.

  “You had no problem leaving Ensign Walker in the dark and, if I remember, you were in favor of taking this approach.”

  “I was carried away. Aroused by visions of Kedros hung out to dry, I’ll admit.” She bared her perfectly regular white teeth. “But when I passed her in the hall, she didn’t look hunted so much as a huntress.” A twist and flicker of her hand said, Not the effect I wanted.

  “Too late. I can’t take back the information I gave her, just because you want her to fail.”

  “I want her to be successful, but as bait.” She rolled her shoulders so her breasts rounded even more. This distracted him, just as she designed. “How can you be sure she’ll pull our stalker out of hiding?”

  “The threats always mention her. So if I’m a target, she has to be.” He looked away to regain his focus. “I’m not surprised she seemed confident. Kedros’s superiors have thrown her to the wolves before.”

  “So now we’re Canis lupus.” She raised an eyebrow. “Luckily, a few subspecies still exist on Terra. Should we find a pack to join?”

  “Funny you should finally think of Terra.” His tone was savage, intentionally so. “Because this isn’t about you, or your vengeance. You know what we’ve tried, and how desperate it is for all species clinging to life there, in the face of an oncoming ice age. Think, for once, without your hormones.”

  Her expression became unreadable as her somaural training kicked in. “The Builders? You mean their attempts to transform Sophia Two? They didn’t get very far with that lump of ice, and I thought the last research report put our chances of understanding the Builders on par with—”

  “Our chances of understanding ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics without the Rosetta stone,” he finished. “I read the reports also.”

  “We’re looking at decades of work. You think anyone can shortcut that?”

  “The Minoans might. They wouldn’t sell the Nautikos leases.”

  “So? Our horned peace police don’t like to lose their investment money, any more than any other lessee.” She shrugged.

  He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “That’s what we thought, too, so I made them an offer blessed by the Overlord himself, an offer that was more than generous. The Minoans couldn’t make that much from their leases for a decade—unless they expected a breakthrough.”

  “Their refusal to sell may not mean anything.”

  “The Minoans crushed every possible legal obstacle to contracting Aether Exploration, and hired Kedros by name. If the Minoans want her so badly, I want to know why.”

  Sabina looked thoughtful. “I understand the urge to keep your allies close and your enemies closer. But beware of that strategy, because you may confuse them.”

  He gave her a dark look as she strolled out of the room, but was distracted by a call. He took it using his Autonomist-made implants, relayed through his slate. Garnet’s voice sounded clear in his ear; he loved the Autonomists’ equipment, so much more reliable than the Terran equivalents.

  “The Golden Bull has docked and we’re moving the crèches into the labs,” Garnet said. “One of the passengers, a Dr. Istaga, wants to see you right away.”

  “Bring him round.” Isrid stretched. Maybe now he’d get some answers.

  CHAPTER 10

  The testimony and evidence presented this morning was horrific. If the deaths of Daniel Pilgrimage, Commander Charlene Pilgrimage, and Captain Zabat teach us any- thing, it’s a cautionary tale against naiveté. They let the isolationists onto the control deck, trusting in their his- torical neutrality. Here’s another tragic lesson: Pilgrim- age HQ sent more than fifty thousand HKD in relief donations to this same isolationist cult. . . .

  —Dr. Net-head Stavros, 2106.054.12.30 UT, indexed by Heraclitus 9 under Conflict Imperative

  Ariane and Matt were not the latest arrivals to the kick-off meeting. They met Dr. Lowry and David Ray, waiting in one of the few ComNet-capable conference rooms in the station. Ariane made introductions, being the only person who had met everyone. Then they waited for their employer. Half an hour of chitchat passed.

  “I’m honored to meet one of Mars’s premier astrophysicists,” David Ray said to Dr. Lowry. “But I’m puzzled. Why did the Minoans ask for you by name? We’ve guessed that they want to hamstring me, Matt, and Ariane, the infamous Breaker of Treaties, with nondisclosure agreements.”

  “That’s a joke; they named me Explorer of Solar Systems in the contract,” Ariane said quickly, glancing at Dr. Lowry. She and Lowry had been imprisoned together when Tahir had threatened them all with a weapon, demanding to meet the Destroyer of Worlds. The Minoans had used that term, publicly, during the initial Pax Minoica conference, for the Autonomist crew that used a TD weapon on Ura-Guinn. Had Dr. Lowry made the connection?

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Kedros. I can forgive you for breaking treaties, but only when saving a solar system.” Her eyes sparkled with warning.

  So she does remember. Ariane looked away first, and busied herself with her slate.

  Dr. Myrna Fox Lowry had earned her Astrophysics chair at MIT, Mars, three years ago, the youngest person to ever hold that position. Her features and build were typical of the uniformity enforced by Terran eugenics, relieved somewhat by her small crooked smile and animated dark eyes. Her tomboyish face was framed by short, light brown hair that spiked and twisted from a casual finger-comb.

  “To answer your question, Mr. Pilgrimage, I’m not sure why the Minoans requested me,” Lowry continued.

  “Please call me David Ray. ‘Mr. Pilgrimage’ applies to several hundred men in this solar system. Perhaps your work here in G-145 has interested the Minoans?”

  “Certainly—David Ray.” Dr. Lowry’s smile widened to match David Ray’s. “I’m the Terran member of the research team that’s working on the Builders’ buoy, although our work’s on hold.”

  Beside Ariane, Matt shifted uncomfortably. The artifact was now called the Builders’ buoy. A motionless artificial structure in space, anchored in the inner part of the solar system, which researchers had determined was an inactive N-space buoy.

  “We’re familiar with it,” Matt said. “We left our most expensive bot on it.”

  Lowry laughed. “It’s still there, Mr. Journey.”

  “You can call me Matt.”

  “Lucky for us, Matt, your bot is still attached to the buoy and transmitting. Our team, that’s me, Oran Novak, and Peter—” Lowry’s smile faded. “Dr. Katsaros was killed by the isolationists. Executed.” She glanced at Ariane, the wounds evident behind her eyes.

  “Hmm. I have a lot of questions. The first is whether the Minoans will really help us restart the research on the Builders’ buoy. If they do, they weaken their stranglehold on the technology—” David Ray’s musing was cut short by the tardy, but nonetheless well-timed arrival of their employer.

  The heavy hatch swung open to reveal the red robes of Contractor Director. With a dip of its long ebony horns, the emissary easily stepped through an opening that seemed impossibly small for its shoulders and height. She watched the long red robes stir and remembered the cold she felt from Warrior Commander. A short- horned guardian followed the emissary, of course.

  “Welcome, Contractor Director,” David Ray said.

  Everyone was quiet as they waited for the emissary’s horns to nod acknowledgment. They had all probably read helpful material, articles titled “Interaction Techniques with Minoans” or “Minoan Etiquette” or such, but there was nothing like expe
rience to help build patience. She looked at Matt, who folded his arms and settled back to wait.

  Contractor Director appeared to be hurrying, for a Minoan, and keeping the requisite pauses short. Even so, Matt started nodding off. She kept him awake with her elbow, and David Ray occasionally asked questions, making sure the nondisclosure agreement didn’t cause treasonous acts against their multiple governments, and that there was wiggle room for contractors to exchange research data.

  “Finally,” Matt whispered in relief, as they all thumbed acceptance and signed.

  Unfortunately, the next unimaginative topic was the work the Minoans expected them to take over. These included contributing to the study of the Builders’ buoy, as well as the “cultural anthropological studies” that Hellas Nautikos had been running. She lost the thread of the briefing as she tried to puzzle out why the Minoans had humans study human reactions to the alien Builders. Thus, she missed the shocking—

  “You’ve got what?” Matt jumped to his feet, saw the guardian react defensively, and as quickly bounced backward into his chair.

  “This is a set of rules we call the Mundane Semantic and Lexical Parser, although that is an optimistic title. We were going to release it to all Priamos research contractors, but our plans were changed by the Criminal Isolationists.”

  “You understand the Builders’ symbols—their language?” Matt sputtered.

  Dr. Lowry frowned. Ariane wondered if she was dismayed at all the lost research time. They could have spent the past months doing more than getting the power working and mapping the ruins.

  “By your calendar,” Contractor Director paused briefly, “we were first able to communicate with the ‘Builders’ twenty-six thousand UT years ago.”

  Matt made a dry sound in his throat. Ariane was speechless, exchanging glances with David Ray. Turning, she saw Dr. Lowry making notes on a slate, something about “time scale.” There was no sense in complaining about not producing the translator earlier; suddenly, she had a different perspective on wasted months, only months, of research.