Pathfinder

by Laura E. Reeve

  “When Pilgrimage proposed the G-145 mission, we understood that Minoan ships had never traveled to this solar system,” David Ray said quietly.

  “You were correct.”

  “You encountered the Builders elsewhere?”

  It was agonizing to wait for the Minoan to dip its horns, causing strings of cascading jewels to sway. “Correct.”

  “Are you going to tell us where?” From the tightness of his voice, Matt sounded like he was reaching the limit of his restraint.

  “That information is not necessary for your research.” Contractor Director sounded smug.

  “When Minoans first made contact with humans, they stated there were no other existing sentient species.” Lowry’s voice was brusque, a logic missile homing in on a problem.

  “That’s practically yesterday for them,” whispered Matt in Ariane’s ear. First contact between the Minoans and Earth, now called Terra, happened around one hundred and thirty UT years ago. Everyone assumed the contact was the result of the Hellenic Alliance landing on Terra’s moon.

  Contractor Director said nothing, until David Ray rephrased Lowry’s comment as a question. “When Minoans arrived in our solar system, why didn’t they consider the Builders an ‘existing sentient species’?”

  “The Builders had ceased being sentient. It happens, particularly with evolved self-consciousness.” Contractor Director made a negligent motion with its hand.

  “Just like that, huh?” Matt commented quietly.

  Contractor Director might have heard him. “We think it ninety-nine percent probable the Builders regressed in the past ten thousand years and their civilization collapsed.”

  “But you haven’t confirmed that.” Lowry belatedly remembered that a question was required. “Is the collapse verified?”

  “Researcher of Astrophysics asks an excellent question.” Contractor Director methodically selected a tawny jewel on a rope that fell from its left horn and looped down to the back of its headdress. Two gloved fingers on one hand twirled the jewel, while the Minoan pointed at the view port on the bulkhead. The words “Proprietary Information” displayed.

  The Minoan’s surprisingly crisp tone, as well as the display, caused Ariane to sit up. Until now, she’d been enjoying the show, but wondering why she’d been given a ticket. The Minoans had their expert astrophysicist, experienced prospector, and—well, David Ray had a lot of legal experience and knew how to protect intellectual property. Why did they need her?

  “We intend to repair the Builders’ buoy and sponsor your exploration to the Builders’ main world. Of course, we need volunteers.” After making this pronouncement, Contractor Director folded its arms and waited.

  Shocked silence. The world had just flipped ninety degrees; technological blocks had mysteriously disappeared, replaced with questions, such as why didn’t the Minoans just go themselves?

  This felt like a dream she’d had before she came to G- 145. In the dream, she struggled to break through a heavy door that had a keyhole. Somewhere, somehow, without any memory of how it happened, she found a key. It was cold and heavy in her hand, made through archaic metallurgy. Then, when she turned to the door, she couldn’t find a keyhole.

  She’d told Major Tafani about the dream. After some thought, he pronounced his explanation: She was searching for meaning in her life, trying to validate her existence. Whether Tafani had been correct or not, no longer mattered. The Minoans had just handed her a clear, honorable, and beneficial goal, minus the usual moral ambiguities of Edones’s missions.

  Ariane stirred. “Count me in,” she said.

  Looking every bit the middle-aged academician, Dr. Istaga hurried forward and offered his hand. “SP, nice to see you again.”

  Isrid smiled dryly as they shook hands. Dr. Istaga knew how to break a somaural reading, and contact did that quite handily. The diffident Istaga had convincingly played the part of interpreter during the weapons inspection at Karthage Point, but he was also a somaural master and a special operative for Overlord Three. He’d earned Autonomist hatred for his wartime missions, which he performed under the code name Andre Covanni and where he pushed the boundaries of the Phaistos Protocols. As Andre, he was responsible for many civilian deaths that only narrowly were defined as collateral damage.

  “I hope your excursion to Beta Priamos was comfortable.” Isrid picked his words carefully, adding emphasis on excursion and signaling, A brief pleasure trip?

  “It’s business, I’m afraid. A fact-finding trip for the Overlord. You understand.” Dr. Istaga looked around and asked about area security with rapid subtlety of finger and wrist movements.

  The room is secure, Isrid answered somaurally. “I watched them put up the bulkheads in this section. My personal security staff scans for both active and passive recording pips every shift, at two randomly determined times. No one, including me, knows the scan schedule more than twenty minutes in advance.” Isrid tapped the time display. “The last scan occurred about an hour ago, at thirteen thirty-three.”

  “Good. I have information for ears only, no record allowed.”

  Isrid nodded. “Now you’ll try to surprise me by saying you killed Dr. Tahir Rouxe.”

  “SP, I’d never attempt to surprise you.” Dr. Istaga used a reproachful tone. “Besides, I couldn’t hope to hide my methods from a former TEBI Director. I delivered two components to Dr. Rouxe, while a guard unwittingly provided the third.”

  How long had it been? Only seven years since he held the position, but those memories had already faded, like they were part of someone else’s life. Was that because he had pushed them away, or because he had changed? Maybe he was just getting old. He sighed and said, “Multicomponent poisons have been in TEBI’s toolkit for a while. In some circles, it’d be tantamount to burning ‘TEBI’ across the victim’s forehead.”

  “True, but it was nice to get back to dependable basic tools. It’s also appropriate for this case, because Pilgrimage sovereignty demands that the crèche-get perform the autopsy. They’re just not up to snuff in multicomponent poisons.” Dr. Istaga smirked.

  “AFCAW’s Directorate of Intelligence will surely suspect, and Colonel Edones has his ship docked on the Pilgrimage.”

  “The Autonomists are snarled up in their own problems. Some sort of political furor over the costs of saving G-145.”

  “But why neutralize Dr. Rouxe? That could capsize the prosecution’s case.” Isrid took care to appear noncommittal, but this question was important. Several Terrans had died in fighting Abram’s isolationists; one of them was State Prince Hauser, a comrade and friend. Abram also had the audacity to imprison and torture Isrid, as well as Isrid’s son, Chander. For those crimes, Isrid would gladly see the isolationists executed, under Terran authority—but killing Rouxe made that goal more difficult. Why take out the prosecution’s best witness?

  An expert reader, perhaps even sensitive to auras, Dr. Istaga’s eyes narrowed as he watched Isrid. For a fraction of a second, Isrid saw the vague features of an unremarkable academician sharpen into those of a cunning, uncompromising political officer. This, surely, was Andre. Just as quickly, facial features blurred and shadowed, as if a cloud had passed over—quite a trick inside a space habitat with artificial lighting. Isrid forced himself to blink and breathe naturally.

  Dr. Istaga was back, and he cocked his head. “Rouxe would have exposed weaknesses, in our forces as well as security. And, since our Overlord lost control of a TD weapon, he’s lost political clout.”

  Political clout? Isrid had rarely heard this phrase uttered on the Overlord’s staff, but he’d always worked external threats. Even now, as Assistant for the Exterior, he wasn’t focused on politics within the League. He waited.

  Dr. Istaga noted the sideboard with refreshments and paused, going over to pick out a drink pack. He came back, took a deep draw and set the pack down with a tiny betraying quiver. “Remember, your ears only. The Overlord has initiated Operation Palisade.”

  Palisade. As
the name insinuated, it was the plan for digging in and protecting Overlord Three’s assets from “close neighbors,” generally meaning an internal League threat. There was always distrust between Overlords, and secrecy and intrigue were expected, particularly with regard to resources.

  “SP Duval? Overlord Six?” Isrid asked. “I wondered why a representative from District Six was appointed to the ICT. I should have queried Terra immediately.”

  “I’m afraid we’ve become accustomed to controlling the wealthiest solar systems, and using Terra as the weight to control the rest of the League.”

  “Accustomed?”

  Dr. Istaga played with the label on his drink pack. “The dynamics have changed, SP.”

  Historically, Overlord conflict lined up with Five and Six against an accord of One through Four. Districts Five and Six contained most of the “fringe” worlds, defined as such by their wildly diverse, contentious, and sometimes insular inhabitants, rather than by galactic location. Fringe worlds usually had dysfunctional economies and weak gross planetary products, due to fragmented populations operating around hot spots of rampant lawlessness.

  One of those hot spots, Enclave El Tozeur on New Sousse, had attracted the ire of the Minoans about thirty years ago. Abram’s isolationist tribe claimed responsibility for an act of space piracy that, inadvertently or not, damaged a Minoan ship. When pressed by the Minoans, Overlord Six had disavowed sovereign responsibility over Enclave El Tozeur and allowed them their retribution. The physical damage was surgical and temporary, but the Minoan’s genetic weapons had permanent effects.

  “Six’s staff has always parroted the line that the Minoans railroaded us into peace, that we should have retaliated after Ura-Guinn.” Isrid didn’t mention he’d had the same opinion until a few years ago. Then he had decided the League’s dire economic situation required a change in his attitude. “What’s changed? Why initiate Palisade, at this point?”

  “It’s still about Pax Minoica, of course. Overlord Six started pushing, again, for us to pull out. Started campaigning several months ago. Vociferously and convincingly. Overlord One has taken his side.” The corners of Dr. Istaga’s mouth stretched into a faded smile, his eyes unfocused, as he mused. “Fifteen years ago, I would have supported that. But now . . .”

  Isrid relaxed. “Same old issues, so Palisade seems rather extreme at this point. District One has always been weak.”

  Dr. Istaga held up a cautionary finger. “Four has sided with our Overlord, but Two is wavering. That’s the problem. The Triangle is no longer united.” Districts Two, Three, and Four comprised the Triangle of Power, because of their resources and raw materials. They could conscript more people from their better-educated populations, and build superior weapon systems.

  “That seems oddly coincidental,” Isrid said slowly. “When, exactly, did Overlord Six start pushing for withdrawal from Pax Minoica?”

  “About eight months ago.” Dr. Istaga shrugged.

  “That’s right behind the release of the Autonomist second-wave prospecting data for G-145.”

  “Ah. You think Six is threatened by the research into the Builders’ technology. Why?”

  “I don’t know, but the timing is suspicious.” He carefully watched Dr. Istaga. “By the way, my security has decided Rouxe’s execution isn’t related to the other drama on the Pilgrimage. Were those explosives your doing?”

  “I’m distressed by your suggestion, SP.” The doctor looked honestly offended. “Those were gauche operations, lacking sophistication.”

  “Are the incidents related to Six’s waning support for Pax Minoica?”

  “Maybe, since they targeted Autonomists.” Dr. Istaga shrugged, and glanced at the time on the wall. His voice hardened. “My purpose here, on this station, is Palisade assessment. Cleaning our house, so to speak. The Overlord can’t be worrying about informers or defectors on his staff.”

  He felt tired, watching fire shine deep in Dr. Istaga’s eyes, but feeling none inside himself. Knowing Istaga was the last person who should hear this from his mouth, he said, “I thought, with our Open Gates policy, we stopped questioning loyalty. This is a small frontier community of interstellar scientists, who value personal opinions and free speech. Do you really intend to single out our District’s people, in this environment, and interrogate them?”

  Dr. Rok Shi Harridan Istaga, known as Andre Covanni by very few people, looked at him with sparkling eyes. “SP, I’m surprised that you would call the test of patriotism an interrogation. But have no fear. The methods I use these days are subtle. Nobody’s going under neural probe.”

  “What about the loyalties and backgrounds of other Terrans? We have contractors coming from throughout the League and it seems sensible to evaluate those from District Six.”

  “Not my responsibility. The TSF should be doing that.” Dr. Istaga shrugged. “But if I see anything unusual, I’ll notify you.”

  “Please do, Doctor.” It took all his composure and training to keep irritation from marring his State-Princely nod and gesture of dismissal.

  Istaga/Covanni seemed to pull the shadows out with him, because the room felt brighter after he left. Isrid sat quietly deflated, and considered how his life had gone sideways. He’d just given his traditional enemy, Major Kedros, information about the threats against his family, yet didn’t feel he could trust his Overlord’s master intelligencer and “political officer” with the same. Strangely, he’d finally come to accept Pax Minoica. He had even staked his career and his family’s livelihood on it and the economic partnership it allowed with the Autonomists. Now it might all go up in smoke, and Sabina’s warning echoed in his mind.

  Ariane was, apparently, the only person who felt freed by the Minoans’ proposal.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoooooaa!” The crèche-get, who’d never seen a riding beast, began applying reins. David Ray stood, his smooth face creased in a grimacing frown. “Before anyone volunteers for anything, we need more information.”

  Contractor Director turned its attention toward her, ignoring David Ray for an interminable span of silence.

  “Ari, you have no idea what’s involved,” Matt said uneasily. “We’re a long way from mounting an expedition.”

  “Agreed.” Contractor Director dipped its horns toward Matt. “Much work must be done before we retrofit a vehicle, but we had to be assured of the crucial volunteer.”

  “Her verbal agreement isn’t binding, in any context.” David Ray’s legal retort was quick.

  “Much work must be done,” Matt repeated, under his breath. “Retrofitting a vehicle? Where’s the money coming from?”

  She leaned forward to tell David Ray that she wasn’t going to change her mind. Matt put a warning hand on her arm. Later, his headshake seemed to say. She leaned back, her protest left unsaid.

  “Is your translator classified as proprietary? With whom may we share it?” Dr. Lowry’s cool tone changed the subject deftly.

  “Any company contracted by an S-triple-ECB lessee,” Contractor Director said. “Please reactivate your research projects, keeping our goals in mind. I will meet with you on a cycle of two UT days, and we will provide more information as your research progresses.”

  “Why so frequently?” Lowry looked irritated.

  “We know how close you are to triggering an nous-space transition, Doctor.”

  Lowry paled at the Minoan’s comment.

  “We have given you partial translation capabilities, which should accelerate research. Please understand that we want you to be successful.” Contractor Director dipped its horns. The ropes of jewels hanging from the tips sparkled and scattered shards of colored light across the walls.

  They watched quietly as the Minoan and its guardian escort left, moving through the hatchway with hardly a rustle. Afterward, Ariane was the only one in the room who didn’t reach for a slate or start making a call.

  “I’ve got to disseminate the translator.” Lowry sprang to her feet and left the room, her hand going to
her implant behind her ear.

  “I need to reserve this conference room,” David Ray said.

  “I should call Diana,” Matt said.

  She sat motionless, in wonder, ignoring the others. Will they really let me pilot to a Builders’ world? Explorer of Solar Systems, the contract had specified.

  “What does this mean?” Matt jerked her out of her reverie. He shoved his slate in front of her face, showing the message, “No incoming or outgoing messages allowed at this location [AFCAW 56394854-BC] due to AFCAWR 122-5 audit procedures.”

  “That’s the Bright Crescent’s identifier. They’re locked down for a full audit and inspection.” Her voice tightened in surprise. So the senator apparently has the time, even during the tribunal, to make good on his threat to Owen.

  “Diana’s not a prisoner, is she?”

  “The ship’s temporarily offline. Nobody’s a prisoner—although the comm will be down as they pull data and logs from the systems. Diana can call you from the Pilgrimage when she gets the time.”

  “Why would that bastard do this?” No need for Matt to use names.

  “It’s not Owen’s fault. My guess is that he, as mission commander, as well as the ship commander and crew, are under Senate investigation.”

  “Oh.” Emotions fought on Matt’s face: satisfaction at seeing the arrogant Colonel Owen Edones get his “due,” and concern for Diana and other crew members of the Bright Crescent.

  She hadn’t expected Senator Stephanos would go through with the investigation now, not when Edones hunted wayward murderers and saboteurs. Was Stephanos dead set upon ruining Edones’s career?

  David Ray interrupted her thoughts, putting a hand on her shoulder and Matt’s. He bent down so his head was on level with theirs and spoke softly. “I hope I don’t have to remind you that the Minoans are never altruistic. They’ll want payback.”

  “Yes, ‘All the world’s a stage,’ ” Matt quoted. “ ‘And we’re all merely puppets.’ ”

  “Players,” corrected David Ray. “ ‘And all the men and women merely players.’ ”