“That’s good,” Matt said. “I’ll tell Ari that you’re getting some exercise.”
There was a pause. Joyce rolled his eyes. Wait for it . . .
“Is Diana there? Will she be visiting in the next hour or two?” Matt asked.
“No, Mr. Journey. Lieutenant Oleander has started her testimony before the board. From what I’ve seen, they’ll suck away everything but minimal rack time.”
“Is she in trouble? Why are they allowed to do this?” Matt sounded plaintive.
“I don’t know that any one person is targeted, but they do seem to be trying to find inadequacies in the Bright Crescent’s performance. And they can do it, because they are senators and apparently we taxpayers have hired them to do this.” Joyce was getting tense, because this was pinging the last working nerve he had and making it raw.
“If you see her, can you tell her to call me? And have you heard anything about that bot that tried to take out my ship? Pilgrimage security isn’t taking my calls.” He sounded so miserable that Joyce felt a spark of compassion, which didn’t happen very often.
“Sorry. Nothing on that bot problem either.” He wouldn’t talk down Pilgrimage crew members to another crèche-get, so he left it at that.
After Matt hung up, Joyce stood up and rearranged his bed, pillows, and blankets. He stretched and tried to settle in a more comfortable sitting position on the bed. Just that little bit of exertion made him tired. Not only that, he was depressed. He wasn’t recovering as fast as he wanted.
With lukewarm enthusiasm, he picked up the civilian slate. He’d hoped to get a military slate with crypto today, but Lieutenant Oleander hadn’t showed up, probably for the very reasons he’d explained to Matt Journey.
Surprisingly, with that slate he found a few answers in publicly available records, although he was no Captain Floros when it came to data digging. He concentrated on discovering who was really behind the senatorial investigation, and why. Two powerful senators, Stephanos and Raulini, who sat at the helms of opposing parties, were driving this board of investigation. Why? Even more puzzling, why now? It wasn’t the best time for Stephanos because he had to sit, concurrently, on the Interstellar Tribunal. Raulini was distracted in a likewise manner, spearheading some legislation that would soon be discussed on the Senate floor on Hellas Prime. In fact, these senators were so busy that their aides had to stand in for them during most of the board’s proceedings.
That was the clue that finally helped Joyce; that, and his natural suspicion of anyone who wore suits like Myron’s. When he couldn’t find anything by sifting through the public correspondence between senators, he dropped into the aide and staff level. Pay dirt! He gave a little whoop as he marked his sources with his stylus.
“Good to see someone’s enjoying the ComNet experience.” Captain Floros stood in the doorway and held up a military-issue slate. “But I think this should help.” She tossed it to him.
“Come in, Captain, and shut the door, will you?” Joyce happily turned on the slate and started the sweep tool. He held it out to Floros, meaningfully.
She nodded. After closing the door, she swept for the listening pips that Terrans littered about, and found none. “I’m sorry to say that you’re important enough to blow up, Sergeant, but not important enough to monitor.”
“I’m not offended a bit. Thank you, Captain, for bringing the slate. How is the Lieutenant doing?”
“Well, our Young Flower is sweating in front of the board. I’ve already been grilled, on anything and everything, it seems,” Floros said, sitting down beside his bed. “Mornings are the worst. That’s when we get in the junior varsity, the snobby aides who think we can’t do anything effectively, efficiently, or legally. They’re excessively rude, as well. The senators, at least, are respectful of rank and military experience.”
Joyce chuckled. “That fits my hypothesis perfectly.” He held the two slates and transferred his data to the military slate. Then he tossed the civilian slate to Floros. “Take a look, Captain. I’ve found these suspicious memos between aides which provide information that appears, in coordinated fashion, within point papers for their senators—all building a case that each senator’s opposition is using the recent military mission in G-145 against them.”
Floros looked skeptical, but started scrolling through the data on the slate. He gave her time to absorb it. Finally, she nodded with grudging admiration. “Sergeant, this is good. You should be working for me.”
“Aw shucks, ma’am.” He grinned.
“Don’t let it go to your head. Besides, there’s nothing concrete here. For decades, there’s been professional, but nonelected, staff that’s acted as a behind- the-political-class class. They know how to cover their tracks with innuendo and senate gossip.”
“A behind-the-class class? If you say so. Whoever they are, they’re capable of sending these senators stampeding into a panicked audit.”
“Maybe,” murmured Floros. She transferred the information to her slate and proceeded to wipe the civilian slate of any evidence of Joyce’s searches. “So Myron and others, on several senator’s staffs, manufactured a need to dissect our mission. How does this fit with Myron passing something to the Terrans?”
“I have no idea,” Joyce admitted. “Have you been able to trace what the dear nephew has done on the Bright Crescent?”
“Myron is Stephanos’s great-nephew,” Floros said primly. “And while he’s pulled every possible log and setting from the Bright Crescent’s systems, I can’t prove that he’s done anything hinky with them. There’s classified data in those logs which could compromise the ship, but if he’s provided copies to somebody, we won’t find evidence on the ship.”
“Too bad we can’t set up a sting to—” Joyce stopped at the strange sounds in the hallway. Floros cocked her head as they heard clicks and loud snuffles, combined with muffled commands in a male voice. Shrieks in both male and female voices followed.
Floros stood up, opened the door, and jumped out of the way of two huge furry animals. They headed toward Joyce’s bed, panting and making clicking and scrabbling sounds with their four feet. Joyce flung himself backward and hit his head against the bulkhead behind his bed.
“Scarier than you thought?” Benjamin had followed the beasts in the door. He cocked his head and said mockingly, “Dogs are what you need, Benjamin. They’re supposed to be great at finding explosives, even after the explosives have been moved. Do you remember saying that, Sergeant Joyce?”
Benjamin had been unexpectedly creative in getting payback for a flippant remark—Okay, I was being a smart-ass. The dogs were loose and moved around the room, panting. Long moist tongues lolled out over sharp white teeth that seemed to grow longer as their jaws came close.
Joyce moved away as they put their huge heads on the bed, sniffing. “I didn’t think they grew so big.”
“These have been bred large.” Benjamin waved and the dogs’ handler came in. Once he collected their leashes, the dogs calmed down and somewhat resembled the sole canine that Joyce’s old aunt had imported to Hellas Prime. That one had been frightfully expensive, fluffy, barkless, and couldn’t reach above his aunt’s knees in the video without jumping. These dogs were more sturdy, bigger, and, to be truthful, more obedient than his aunt’s.
Joyce’s medic hadn’t calmed. “They’re filthy, they smell, they drool—eeeeew—they can’t be in here!”
“They can be cleaned. They’ve been cooped up in their cages for the last ten hours,” the handler said. The nurse immediately began arguing with him, so Floros herded them toward the door, canines included.
“I’m surprised at you, Benjamin,” Joyce said.
“Why?”
“First, you took my advice and second, you’re willing to get covered with dog hair.”
Benjamin looked down, shuddered slightly, and surprised Joyce with a lean grin. “Actually, I kind of like them, although we have to do something about the smell. After that, I’m taking them through the v
isitors’ quarters.” He glanced at the handler, standing in the doorway and defending his wards against the medic. “I’ve heard some great things about Sammy.”
“Sammy?” Joyce noticed Benjamin seemed a bit giddy. Had the Pilgrimage security officer discovered he had a deep love for hairy four-legged animals, or was he just allergic to their dander?
“Sammy’s the explosives dog. The other one, Xena, can follow people’s scents and special identifiers.”
“Xena and Sammy. Sure. Thanks.” When Benjamin showed no sign of moving, Joyce added gently, “I could get better rest if you and the dogs left.”
“Wait. I’ve got an idea.” Captain Floros smiled.
Dr. Lee Pilgrimage walked through artificially dimmed and quiet hallways. It was the middle of third shift on Beta Priamos Station and as always, humans tried to maintain a universal diurnal schedule. Lee, however, hadn’t slept very well and she’d quietly left David Ray in bed, still snoring faintly.
Late yesterday, the Minoans had delivered a simplified copy of the “manual” for their implant. Ariane Kedros had come by and helped her peruse it. They finally found out how to install an implant; it could attach to a chemically tagged long muscle or ligament in Ariane’s body. From there, it interacted by introducing biochemical signals into the muscle and blood—so its location with respect to arteries and veins was important.
Lee had also started tests with Ariane’s tissues and blood, trying to figure out what the implant was doing—biochemically, at least. This morning, she’d have some results that would indicate whether the implant could be easily removed. The information about the removal procedure might be the tipping point for Ariane’s decision to allow the implant. So far, Lee couldn’t tell which way the young woman was leaning.
Her lab was darker than the corridor and, like this entire part of the station, it didn’t have full node coverage. She couldn’t display anything on the walls yet, but she could use the ubiquitous plasticlike covering on the ceiling for light and she had minimal audio support.
She frowned. On her lab bench, she saw one of her slates brightly displaying something. There was also a view port open on the counter-height surface of the bench. She hadn’t left any displays running; even so, they would have dimmed by now. Reaching beside the door, she tapped a command.
Sudden, bright lights showed an empty lab. The corner with the hospital bed had closed curtains that hung, knee-height, above the floor. No one’s feet showed. She couldn’t see behind the lab bench, so she moved to the displays and leaned over to look behind the bench. There was no one there. Her slate displayed the results of a tissue test—
She was grabbed from behind, a hand pressing over her mouth with iron control, an arm wrapped around her waist and pinning her arms. It was a tall, strong person who must have stood on the bed. She should have checked the patient area first.
“Stop struggling, Doctor, or I’ll break your neck.” The voice, close to her right ear, was male.
She stopped. The grip on her mouth pressed her head back against his chest, while the arm around her waist loosened. She heard a snick as something was unfastened from a clip. Her eyes widened as he held up a tube-shaped instrument longer than his hand. It had multiple prongs that ended in delicate wires. She recognized it: a portable neural probe.
“You and I are going to have a discussion about your work. Don’t worry—you’re not going to remember a bit of this.”
CHAPTER 17
Once the ICT began closed sessions, our correspondent in G-145 has covered only side-interest fluff. Our editor has asked her to remain for the final judgment of the ICT, as well as the results of the Senate’s inquiry aboard the Bright Crescent. . . .
—Editorial Board Minutes, Interstellarsystem Events Feed, 2106.060.09.58 UT, indexed by Heraclitus 21 under Conflict Imperative
Ariane walked into the meeting in time to hear a dispute between questionable authorities on idiom history, regarding “waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“I should be able to use ‘boot.’ The style of footwear shouldn’t matter,” David Ray said.
Matt leaned forward in his chair. “It’s from a time when people were squeezed on top of one another in multifloor residences. When someone above them was undressing and dropped a shoe—”
“Or boot,” David Ray interrupted. “It was a time when people wore boots. It indicates anticipation of an event that everyone believes will happen.”
This was a regularly scheduled status meeting with their management. Contractor Director and its guardian stood in front of a small audience seated in semicircle of chairs. Matt and David Ray sat in the center, debating casually and ignoring the motionless Minoans standing a few meters away. On Matt’s far side sat Dr. Novak, who was still intimidated, frozen into stillness with only his gaze moving between the two aliens. Beside David Ray sat a man in a jumpsuit made in the Consortium, given its colorful combination of red and black. He watched, bemusedly, the discussion between David Ray and Matt, although he kept glancing at the Minoan emissary—suitably awed, but not in Novak’s catatonic way. On his upper sleeve was a patch showing a shield and stars, with the word “Pytheas” underneath.
He could have been Brandon’s older brother. She stared at him, but revised a few assumptions. He could have been Captain Brandon Lengyel’s brother sixteen years ago, before the Ura-Guinn mission, before the disastrous rejuv attempt, and before AFCAW made him Bartholomew Leukos.
The subject of her interest turned in his seat, and offered a handshake. “Hello, I’m Dalton Lengyel, mission commander of the Pytheas.”
It took a feat of mental strength not to answer, “Of course you are.” She shook his hand, leaning downward. He kept smiling in a puzzled sort of way. “Oh—I’m Ariane Kedros,” she said quickly. “I’ll be the pilot if we get this expedition off the ground.”
“Glad to meet you.”
As she sat down next to Dalton, Matt grinned at her. He didn’t connect Dalton with Leukos, not knowing how Leukos looked when he was healthy and young.
“Your ship’s time and crew are on the payroll of Leukos Industries, so we have Mr. Leukos to thank for this, I guess,” she said.
“I’ve never met the big guy.” Dalton shrugged. “I don’t ask where the money comes from; getting research fellowships or grants aren’t my business.”
She smiled politely. Dalton had to be related to Brandon, who was helping his old family, regardless of secret identities. AFCAW would certainly disapprove, but it didn’t seem to harm Brandon’s identity as Mr. Leukos.
Dr. Lowry appeared in the door, late and rushed. This was the signal to Contractor Director to start the meeting. The guardian closed the door and positioned itself in front of it. Contractor Director immediately had everyone’s attention.
The Minoans were using a three-pronged onslaught: equip an exploration ship, equip a human N-space pilot, and get the Builders’ buoy working so that the first two could use it. The three efforts were somewhat related; for instance, the Pytheas would probably need a few changes to be able to use the Builders’ buoy lock signal. The pilot, aka Explorer of Solar Systems, had to also be upgraded to use the buoy and ship, according to the Minoans. That work was ongoing, as was the research into the buoy.
“Additionally, you must ensure Pytheas- ship is capable of defending itself,” added Contractor Director.
“And the other boot is dropped,” David Ray muttered. He was right, because a miniature tempest ensued.
“I thought you told us the Builders no longer existed,” Matt said.
“Defending against what? Are we talking about weapons?” Dalton asked. “The Pytheas isn’t fitted with anything but rail guns. We don’t have a crew position to run weapons.”
Eventually, everyone quieted when they realized the Minoan would only answer questions in its own way, and in its own time. Beside Ariane, Dr. Lowry fidgeted as the silence wore on.
“We explained the xenophobic nature of the Builders. They protected th
eir home world by damaging N-space, so they have surely installed real-space protection.” Contractor Director made a gesture as if to say, Isn’t this obvious?
“Please, Contractor Director, we need more explanation. The timeline you gave our researchers states the Builders became extinct approximately seventy-five hundred years ago,” David Ray said. Ariane raised her eyebrows, impressed that David Ray was following the xenology studies as well.
The Minoan emissary stayed motionless, until David Ray remembered that he had to ask a question. “You can see why we’re confused, can’t you? We wouldn’t expect space-based defenses to be working after thousands of years, so we question equipping the Pytheas with defense systems. Why should we go to the effort and expense?”
Contractor Director cocked its head. “The Builders shut down their facilities on Priamos, but have you not seen them to be in almost perfect operating condition?”
There was silence. She saw her own thoughts on Matt’s face, and in the incline of the Minoan’s head. Silly humans! Because our own artifacts and creations rarely last thousands of years, we can’t comprehend planning or engineering on that time scale.
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I feel humbled,” David Ray said in a low voice.
“We need to know more about the threat,” Ariane said. “Will they have atmospheric, orbital, or space- based platforms? Will they be mobile? What about missiles? Active or passive targeting? Can you answer any of those questions for us, Contractor Director?”
“No. We have not observed the Builders recently.”
David Ray choked a little at the word “recently.”
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