Polaris

by Jack McDevitt

“We’re going to look at the Clermo?”

  “We should have done it two months ago.”

  “Why?”

  “Everson and his people never found what they were looking for.”

  “So—?”

  “That means it might still be on the ship.”

  I called Evergreen, gave them a set of false names different from the ones Fenn had bestowed on us. I was taking no chances. For this trip, we would be Marjorie and Clyde Kimball. I especially liked that because Alex has a thing about names. There are certain ones, he maintains, that you just can’t take seriously. Herman. Chesley. Francis. Frank is okay. So I knew what he’d think of Clyde.

  “We’re doing a book on the Polaris incident,” I explained, “and we’d like very much to tour the Clermo.”

  My contact was a quiet, intense young woman, dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes. Professional smile. It put a fair amount of distance between us. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The Clermo isn’t fitted out for tours.” Whatever that meant.

  “We’re embarking on this project,” I told her, “under the auspices of Alex Benedict.” That was taking a chance, but it seemed necessary. I waited for a sign of recognition. “I suspect your employers would want you to agree.” That was a leap, but Alex was pretty well known.

  “I’m sorry. Who is he again?”

  “Alex Benedict.” When she went blank, I added, “The Christopher Sim scholar.”

  “Oh. That Alex Benedict.” She didn’t have a clue. “Can you hold, please, Ms. Kimball? Let me check with my supervisor.”

  The supervisor didn’t know either. It took a couple more calls before I finally got through to an executive secretary who said yes, of course, they’d be delighted to have a representative of Mr. Benedict tour the Clermo, except that she didn’t know when the ship would be available.

  We went back and forth for the next couple of days before we finally got an invitation, primarily, I suspect, because I’d become a nuisance.

  Evergreen’s Skydeck office was located on the ‘Z’ level, at the bottom of the pile and well out of everyone’s way.

  The Foundation had purchased the Polaris in 1368, three years after Delta Karpis. They renamed it and had been using it since to transport company executives, politicians, prospective customers, and assorted other special guests.

  We got our first sight of it from one of the lower-level viewports. It was smaller than I’d expected, but I should have realized that it wouldn’t be very big. It was a passenger transport vehicle, with a carrying capacity for the captain plus seven. Not much more than a yacht.

  It had a retro look, with a rounded prow, flared tubes, and a wide body. Had it not been for its history, I suspected the Clermo would have been retired. But it provided a substantial degree of cachet for Evergreen. It was easy to imagine the Foundation’s executives pointing out to their VIP passengers the very workspace Tom Dunninger had used while history was overtaking the ship. Ah, yes, if the bulkheads could only talk.

  The retro look added to the charm. But the forest of scanners, sensors, and antennas that had covered the hull in its Survey days was gone. Only a couple of dishes were visible now, rotating slowly, and a few telescopes.

  The hull, once gray, was now sea green. The tubes were gold, and there was a white sunburst on the bow. The imprint of the DEPARTMENT OF PLANETARY SURVEY AND ASTRONOMICAL RESEARCH no longer circled the airlock. The Polaris seal, the arrowhead and star, had been removed from the forward hull, which now read EVERGREEN, in white letters stylized as leafy branches entangled with vines. The Foundation’s tree symbol lay just aft of the main airlock. The only thing that remained from the original designators was the manufacturer’s number, barely visible on the tail.

  We were met by a middle-aged, thin, officious man wearing a gray company shirt with the tree logo sewn across the breast pocket. He looked up from a monitor as we strolled into the Evergreen offices. “Ah,” he said, “Mr. and Mrs. Kimball?” His name was Emory Bonner. He introduced himself as the assistant manager of Skydeck operations. He’d done his homework and mentioned his admiration for Alex Benedict’s efforts in what he referred to as “the Christopher Sim business.” “Magnificent,” he said.

  Alex, wearing a false beard and shameless to the last, commented that Benedict was indeed an outstanding investigator, and that it was a privilege to be assisting him in this project.

  Bonner said hello to me but never really took his attention from Alex. “May I ask precisely what your interest is in the Clermo, Mr. Kimball?”

  Alex went off on a long thing about antiquities, and the value of the Clermo as an artifact. “I sometimes wonder,” he concluded, “whether the executives at Evergreen are aware of the potential market for this ship.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Bonner. “We are quite aware. We’ve taken very good care of the Clermo.”

  “Yet,” said Alex, pushing his point, “you’ve kept it in operation. That does nothing for its long-term value.”

  “We’ve found it quite useful, Mr. Kimball. You’d be surprised the effect it has on our VIP guests.”

  “I’m sure. In any case, we’ll be writing about a number of artifacts that are currently grossly undervalued. Every one of them, Mr. Bonner, will appreciate considerably after publication.” He smiled at the little man. “If you’d like to make a killing, you might try to buy it from the Foundation. It would make an excellent investment.”

  “Yes, I’ll talk to them today and make the down payment tomorrow.” Turning serious: “When do you anticipate publication?”

  “In a few months.”

  “I wish you all the best with it.” He took a moment to notice me, and asked whether I was also working on the project.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Very good.” He’d fulfilled his obligation to basic decency. “Well, I know you’re busy, so maybe we should go take a look.”

  He led the way outside. We walked back down the tunnel by which we’d come and stopped before a closed entry tube. He told the door to open, we passed through and strolled down onto the docks. He paused to talk to a technician, giving him instructions that sounded as if they were being delivered to impress us. A few moments later we followed him through another tube and emerged beside the Clermo’s airlock.

  Beside the Polaris.

  It looked ordinary enough. I’m not sure what I was expecting, a sense of history, maybe. Or the chill that had come when we’d stood at the crime scene on the Night Angel. Whatever had happened that day at Delta Karpis, had happened right there, on the other side of the hatch. Yet I felt no rush of emotion. I kept thinking that I was really looking, not at the inexplicable, but at an object used in an elaborate illusion.

  It was open. Bonner and Alex stood aside, allowing me the honor of entering first.

  The lights were on. I went in, into the common room, which was twice the size of Belle’s. There were three small tables and eight chairs arranged around the bulkheads. Bonner began immediately jabbering about something. Fuel efficiency or some such thing. The Polaris had been luxurious, in the way that Survey thought of the term. But its present condition went well beyond that. The relatively utilitarian furniture that you saw in the simulations had been replaced. The chairs were selbic, which looked and felt like soft black leather. The bulkheads, originally white, were dark-stained. Thick green carpets covered the decks. Plaques featuring Evergreen executives posing with presidents, councillors, and senators adorned the bulkheads. (I suspected the plaques were taken down and replaced regularly, a custom set installed for each voyage, depending on who happened to be on board.)

  The square worktable and displays were gone, and the common room now resembled the setting for an after-dinner club. Hatches were open the length of the ship, so we could see into the bridge and, in the opposite direction, the private cabins and workout area. Only the engineering compartment was closed.

  There were four cabins on each side. Bonner opened one for our inspection. The appointments were right out of
the Hotel Magnifico. Brass fittings, a fold-out bed that looked extraordinarily comfortable, another selbic chair (smaller, because of space limitations, than the ones in the common room, but lavish nonetheless), and a desk, with a comm link hookup.

  The workout area would have accommodated two or even three people. You could run or cycle to your heart’s content through any kind of VR countryside, or lift weights, or whatever you liked. Maximum use of minimum area. It would have been nice to have something like that on the Belle-Marie.

  “Evergreen has taken good care of the Polaris,” Alex said, as we turned and walked back toward the bridge.

  Bonner beamed. “Yes, we have. The Clermo has been maintained at the highest level. We’ve spared no effort, Mr. Kimball. None. I expect we’ll see many more years’ service from her.”

  Good luck to him on that score. The ship had to be pretty much at the end of her life expectancy, with only a year or so left before her operational credentials would expire.

  We went up onto the bridge. It’s amazing how much difference the brass makes. Although I knew Belle was state-of-the-art, the Clermo just looked as if it could get you where you wanted to go safer and faster. Its Armstrong engines had, of course, been replaced by quantum technology. It felt snug and agreeable. I’d have liked a chance to take her out and tool around a bit.

  There couldn’t have been much resemblance to the bridge Maddy English had known. Most of the gear had been updated, and the paneled bulkheads would never have found their way onto a Survey ship. Nevertheless, this was the space she’d occupied. It was the place from which the last transmission had been sent.

  “Departure imminent. Polaris out.”

  She’d been right about that.

  “Notice the calibrated grips,” Bonner was saying. “And the softened hues of the monitors. In addition—” He seemed unaware of why the ship was interesting.

  Maddy had been preparing to enter Armstrong space, so the six passengers would have been belted down, probably in the common room, possibly in their quarters. “If you were the pilot of this ship,” Alex asked me when we had a moment, “would it make a difference to you?”

  “No. Irrelevant. Whatever they like, as long as the restraints are in place.”

  “Anything else you’d like to see?” asked Bonner, who was watching me as if he thought I might try to make off with something.

  “Yes,” said Alex, “I wonder if we could take a look belowdecks.”

  “Certainly.” He led the way down the gravity tube, and we wandered through the storage area. The lander bay was located immediately below the bridge. Bonner opened the hatch to the smaller vehicle, and we looked in. The lander was a Zebra, top of the line. “New,” I said.

  “Yes. We’ve replaced it several times. Most recently just last year.”

  “Where’s the original?” Alex asked. “From the Polaris?”

  He smiled. “It’s on display at Sabatini.” Foundation headquarters.

  I caught Alex’s eyes as we stood beside the lander. Had he seen what he was looking for?

  He signaled no. Either no he hadn’t, or no, don’t say anything.

  We strolled out through the airlock. A lone technician was doing something to one of the fuel tanks, and Bonner peeled off to talk to him. When he was out of earshot, Alex asked how difficult it would be for a passenger to seize control of a ship. “I’m talking about getting the AI to take direction,” he said.

  That was simple enough. “All you’d have to do, Alex, is to get logged on to the AI response list. But the captain would have to do it.”

  “But Belle will take direction from me.”

  “You own the ship.”

  Bonner caught up with us and asked whether we’d found everything we needed.

  “Oh, yes,” said Alex. “It was an exquisite experience.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.”

  “One more question, if you don’t mind, Emory.” Alex was in his charm mode. “When Evergreen first acquired the Clermo, do you know whether anything left by the original Survey passengers was found on board? Any personal items?”

  Well, that one floored him, and he didn’t mind letting us see it. “That’s sixty years ago, Mr. Kimball. Before my time.”

  Right. Nothing that had happened before this guy was born could be of any consequence. “I understand that,” Alex said. “But artifacts from an historic ship are valuable.”

  “I was under the impression,” he said, “that Survey scoured the ship when it originally came back.”

  “Nevertheless, they might have overlooked something. If they did, it would be worthwhile to know about it, and I suspect somebody at Evergreen would have been smart enough to hang on to it.”

  “I assume you’re right, Mr. Kimball. But I just have no way of knowing.”

  “Who would know?”

  He led the way into an exit tube. “Somebody at the Sabatini office might be able to help.”

  “Thanks,” Alex said. “One final thing.” He showed him a picture of Teri Barber. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

  He squinted at it and arranged to look unimpressed. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t know her. Should I?”

  We caught the ground-side transport and transferred to a flight to Sabatini. Alex sat staring out at the clouds. We’d been in the air only a half hour when the pilot warned us of turbulence ahead. Within minutes we sailed into heavy weather and started to sway. Alex made a comment about the storm, how it looked pretty dark out there. I said yes it did and asked whether he still thought Walker was involved.

  “No question about it.”

  “How could that be? We know they couldn’t have taken Maddy and the passengers aboard the Peronovski. Are you suggesting Alvarez lied?”

  “No. Alvarez appeared before the Trendel Commission. He tested out, so we know he kept nothing back. But they never checked Walker. No reason to.”

  “But they couldn’t smuggle seven people onto Alvarez’s ship and maintain them without his knowing.”

  “That’s the way it looks.”

  “It’s impossible.” I took a deep breath as raindrops began to splatter against the windows. “Not only couldn’t it be done without the captain’s knowledge, it couldn’t be done at all. We’ve been over this. There’s no way the Peronovski could have supported nine people.”

  He took a deep breath, sighed, but said nothing.

  “There might be another possibility,” I said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’ve been assuming the conspirators were a majority. Pretty much everybody except Dunninger.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve also been assuming there was a kidnapping. But I can tell you how things could have happened.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Somebody, one or two, take over the ship. They have six days before the Peronovski will arrive. So they go elsewhere in the system.”

  “I’m with you so far.”

  “It’s not a kidnapping, Alex. They kill everybody. Get rid of the bodies. Then go to wherever the Peronovski found them. With Walker’s help they get aboard without being seen by Alvarez. And all Alvarez finds is an empty ship.”

  “Good,” Alex said. “That seems to account for everything.”

  I felt pretty good. “Thank you,” I said.

  He was smiling, too. “Why?” he asked.

  “You mean, what was the motive?”

  “Yes.”

  “The same thing we’ve been talking about. To prevent Dunninger from completing his work.”

  “You think any of these people were capable of murder?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I like your solution,” said Alex, “but I just don’t believe it happened that way. It’s too bloody-handed. And I can’t imagine Boland or White or any of them consenting to commit murder. For any reason.”

  “What about Maddy? She was fairly ruthless.”

  “Maddy had no motive.”

  “Maybe she was
bought.”

  “To murder six people? And to disappear herself? I don’t think so.” He took a deep breath. “But you agree that there could have been an extra passenger or two on board the Peronovski without the captain’s being aware of it?”

  Yes. They could have used the belowdecks compartments. Walker would have had to get extra supplies on board. Extra water. But if he had done that, it could have been managed. The captain has no reason to go prowling around in storage. “I don’t see why not,” I said.

  Alex closed his eyes and appeared to go to sleep. We left the storm behind, and the sun reappeared. Two hours later we crossed the Korali Mountains and began our approach to Sabatini. A cloud of vehicles floated through the sky.

  Evergreen’s headquarters was located among rolling hills, on the southern gulf. I’d called ahead and established that, yes, they did have a display room that held exhibits and artifacts from their two-century-long history, that it included the Polaris shuttle and a few other items that had been found on the ship, and yes, they would provide a tour.

  Our guide was Cory Chalaba, a middle-aged, steely-eyed woman who felt strongly about endangered reefs in the Minoan Sea, overflowing population on half a dozen Confederate worlds, and the recklessness, as she put it, with which people introduced secondary biosystems onto living planets. We sat drinking coffee and munching donuts for about twenty minutes in her office, talking about Evergreen’s role in what she referred to as the human adventure. “Because that’s what it is. There’s no plan, there are no stated objectives, no thought for the future. All anyone cares about is profit. And power. And that means development.”

  “What about Survey?” I asked. “They must make an effective partner for Evergreen. At least you’re not in it alone.”

  “Survey’s worst of all.” She was heating up. “They want to find out how a given biosystem develops, how it got to be what it is. And then record its characteristics. Once they’ve done that, they don’t give a damn what happens to it.” It was easy to imagine her in the protest line outside Dunninger’s lab at Epstein.

  The Foundation’s display was both more and less than I’d expected. It consisted primarily of clothing worn by Evergreen collaborators during historic events, instruments used by them, notebooks, pictures, VR records. There were rocks from Grimaldo, where a small band of Evergreen’s people had died trying to protect that world’s giant lizards from hunters who had flocked to it with a vast array of high-tech cannons. Several of the species, according to an accompanying placard, were now extinct. They had the shoulder patch from Sharoun Kapata’s blouse, dating from the Mineral Wars on Dellaconda. Replicas of boats and ships were mounted along the walls, along with their histories. Transported the Ann Kornichov team to the Gables, 1325. And, Rammed and sunk by net-draggers in the skies of Peleus, 1407.