The autohoist hauled David Ray upward so quickly that he banged the sides of the port. His yelps were overridden by another screech of metal pins. As he hung above the port, Matt closed the hatch and slapped the manual override lever, seeing shadows converging on the doorway below.
“Flechettes,” David Ray said, panting in pain. “They’re inside the bottom half of the airlock.”
“Watch out—this is going to hurt.” Matt released the autohoist and tried to catch David Ray, shoving him through the airlock door into the donation center.
David Ray groaned as he fell, trying to keep off his bad leg. He pulled himself along the floor to lean against the small bar.
Matt followed him and shut the airlock. “Pilgrimage command: Lock all airlocks to”—he looked up, reading the plaque over the hatch—“module two-zero-nine-eight. Pilgrimage command: Emergency seal override required in module two-zero-nine-eight. Lock all airlocks.”
The Pilgrimage systems answered him. “Are you declaring nine-one-one?”
“No, emergency seal override.” Matt tried not to shout.
“Do you require assistance?”
“No! Emergency seal override!”
There was a lag, and then the confusion the Pilgrimage systems were suffering became apparent. “No venting or gas mixture malfunctions detected in module two-zero-nine-eight. Emergency maintenance has been initiated at the airlock. Please remain calm and you will soon be able to exit the module.”
The men in the module below had been quicker than Matt. He let loose a string of foul language that he’d learned from Ari. It started with common four-letter words and got worse as the Minoan Bull’s genitalia were pulled into the fray. He turned to face David Ray, whose eyes were wide.
“You have to issue the security override,” Matt said. “I’m not Pilgrimage.”
“That could trap them. . . .” David Ray’s voice tensed and he swallowed.
“They’re going to get through, in time, and they’re using flechette weapons.” Matt pointed at David’s wounded leg, which was the most damning evidence of barbaric behavior. Stun weapons were widely available for use in space. They could be lethal, depending on the current they generated, but they were civilized weapons. Even the military used stunners.
David Ray looked at his gory thigh and winced. “I was lucky to catch the edge of the burst. I must have been at the far range of—”
A voice boomed from the nodes. “I am Abram Hadrian Rouxe and I now command the Pilgrimage. Continue in your assigned work, and you will not be harmed. Two of your captains are held hostage to your good behavior—the other’s death stands witness to what will happen if you do not cooperate with me.”
Matt shivered at the cold, uncompromising tone in the deep voice. The word structures and the slight accent were unfamiliar; the speaker wasn’t Autonomist or Generational.
“Who is this Rouxe?” David Ray asked.
Matt shook his head.
“Please remain calm and the airlock will soon be repaired. The maintenance staff will release you in a few minutes.” The helpful tone of the ship’s system made Matt start cursing again.
“Maybe we should cooperate,” David Ray said.
“I’m thinking they’re not the forgiving type, even if all we’ve done is made fools of them.” Matt tapped commands on the wall panel. “I’m locked out of ship systems.”
Once again, an announcement by Rouxe came from the nodes. This time it was slightly different. “I am Abram Hadrian Rouxe and I carry the spirit of our leader, Qesan Douchet. My men will be visiting every work center. Cooperate with them and you will not come to harm. I can be benevolent, but remember that I have control of your children, both born and unborn.”
David Ray’s face paled. “There’s no chance of negotiation. We’ll die if they get through.”
“You’re sure?” Matt asked.
They locked gazes, and he got the feeling that the older man was terrified. The set in David Ray’s jaw meant he was no longer considering a quiet surrender. Why the change?
“So we’re blowing the module,” Matt said softly.
David nodded. They waited for another announced threat, the same one, to complete.
“Did you recognize the name, the one he reverently mentioned?” Then, without waiting for Matt’s answer, he rapidly said, “Pilgrimage command: security override. David Ray, alpha-ten-omega-four-two-phi. Pilgrimage command: security override. I require access to the emergency module system.”
Matt held his breath and the independent EMS came online, showing its emergency options, one of which was to disconnect the module from the ship. He drew a breath in relief.
“What are you waiting for?” David Ray was adjusting the autohoist harness to hold him to the bar and floor.
Matt turned and grabbed the handhold, near the display, and attached to the bulkhead about a meter from the airlock. Any doubts that he might not remember how to do this vanished as his fingers danced across the panel. Every child on a generational ship was drilled in how to separate modules in a life-threatening emergency. Not surprisingly, the Pilgrimage interfaces were the same as what he had trained with on the Journey IV.
“Countdown starting!” Matt yelled.
Warning lights and a countdown display would be blinking in the airlocks above and below this module, warning the occupants that they had fifteen seconds . . . ten seconds . . . five seconds. There were clangs from below. Perhaps the men were trying to prevent the airlock door from closing. That was foolish, because their own module might decompress.
Matt tightened his hold as thumps came from charges blowing below and above him. There was creaking, a sharp, strong thrust, the screech of metal on metal combined with David Ray’s grunt of pain, and module 2098 pushed away from the Pilgrimage III.
CHAPTER 8
The Absolutionist party uses the slogan “Yellowstone
caused the war,” but that’s not right. That extinction
event only taught us that we didn’t know the first thing
about terraforming and intentional climate change. We
also didn’t know how to pay for it, after the emergency
aid dried up. So the colonists got tired of being taxed
into extinction and that’s what caused the war: money.
In particular, who had to pay for fixing Terra?
—TerranXL State Prince Ling Adams, 2104.281.15.08 UT, indexed by Heraclitus 22 under Conflict Imperative
“It’s a good sign that you’re willing to meet my deadline,” Maria Guillotte said.
“We wanted to show our good faith, once we received your message.” Joyce gave her a broad smile, at least by his standards.
He’d pushed Journey and Kedros on the schedule, which then allowed him a whole shift of sleep by renting a berth in the singles’ quarters on Beta Priamos. He’d arrived on the moon’s surface before first shift. The few nodes near the entrance recorded his arrival, but other than that, there wasn’t standard node coverage in the facility. Priamos Moon operated without the watchful presence of ComNet or MilNet, although that would change in the next month.
“Let’s go to my office.” Maria signaled for silence and strode deeper into the structure along sloping corridors and through strangely angled intersections.
Joyce would have liked to linger and look at the alien architecture, but instead concentrated on the long legs and tight ass of the woman in front of him. Sure, she looked good from the back, but the Terran penchant for standardization meant that Maria looked like any other Terran woman, at least when it came to her perfect proportions. She looked like the Aphrodite action figures his kids played with.
Given his experience, Joyce preferred the proportions of his wife, who was shorter and plumper than Maria. Besides, no soldier should allow his dick to distract him, particularly when he was on a plainclothes military intelligence mission.
Maria stopped at a recessed door that looked like one continuous piece of semiprecious stone si
milar to agate. It was highly polished and had a shiny weblike design of inlaid metal that looked like copper, yet the metal hadn’t oxidized. There was a pattern near the side of the door, about halfway up. She held her hand over the design and a four-clawed appendage shot out.
Joyce jumped backward before he saw it was a holographic projection. The door slid open. Maria turned and smiled sweetly at him. “My office,” she said.
Once inside, he used his enhanced slate to scan for recording pips. Maria watched patiently, a quirky smile on her lips.
“Well, what’s on the bargaining table?” he asked. Information was always the currency in the intelligence arena.
“What do you want?”
“Andre.” His reply was quick. Andre Covanni was a shadowy legend during the war and he remained undercover to continue his work for TerraXL, despite the Directorate’s best efforts.
“Going for the brass ring, aren’t you?” Maria shook her head with a sad smile. “If I had that to peddle, do you think I’d be here in G-145? Nathan might have passed messages to Andre, but we were too low in the food chain to know Andre’s orders or identity.”
“Parmet?”
“The SP isn’t his handler, that’s for sure. I don’t think the SP even knows Andre’s identity. But I could reduce the possibilities for you, perhaps as low as twenty.” Her eyes narrowed.
That wasn’t any better than what the Directorate already knew. Joyce kept his face passive, remembering Maria’s somaural capabilities, and tried another approach. “We’ll need you to stay in place,” he began.
She cut him off. “Not acceptable.”
“If you can’t give us a lead on Andre, then your value—”
This time, she got a message on her ear bug and had to stop him.
“The SP arrived early. I thought he wouldn’t be visiting until after the contractor meeting. We’ll have to continue this discussion later.”
“Wait. Should I stay in your office?” he asked.
She paused, turning and smiling, before opening the door. “I suppose, but don’t show yourself. If necessary, you can hide in the closet.” She pointed at a narrow door behind her desk that, given the strange shape of the room, he’d hesitate to say was on the back wall.
Joyce pressed his lips together in irritation as she left.
“You must be from Aether Exploration, the company that masterminded this extraordinary mess.” Sewick’s self-importance showed in his expression. He moved ahead of his colleagues to get center stage and offer his hand, which she grudgingly shook. She hated introductions where everyone pretended not to recognize one another, particularly in the age of ComNet. Either this was pretension, or the man hadn’t done his prep.
“Yes, I must be Ms. Kedros. Pleased to meet you in person, Mr. Sewick.” She tried to sound cheery, which was difficult because his handshake caused twinges of pain in her ribs. She stepped back before any more hands were offered. Everyone else took her cue and nodded their heads during greetings.
Four people met her when the elevator reached the moon surface. Mr. Sewick was the prime Autonomist contractor. She next greeted Mr. Wescott and Mr. Barone, the prime Terran and Minoan contractors, respectively. Barone wasn’t Minoan, of course, but a native of Hellas Prime. He represented Hellas Nautikos, a company primarily owned by Minoan interests, meaning that Minoan capital comprised more than fifty percent of their assets.
The fourth person seemed vaguely familiar to Ariane: a dark-skinned, dark-eyed woman in an AFCAW green uniform, loaded down with bright gold epaulets and red trim. She had gray slivers in her short black hair and experience in her hard face, so Ariane almost expected the colonel rank on her shoulders. Her name tag read DOKOS.
“This is my ball and chain, otherwise known as my military adviser, Colonel Dokos.” Sewick’s smile was oily and he didn’t meet Ariane’s eyes, letting his gaze slide elsewhere. “I understand you’re AFCAW also, Ms. Kedros.”
“Reserve Armed Forces, rank of major, but I’m not on active-duty orders,” Ariane answered automatically as she nodded to Dokos. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“Likewise.” Colonel Dokos met her gaze squarely, taking a moment to study her face. “Have you had an accident, Ms. Kedros?”
Her ribs had grabbed her attention; she’d forgotten about the more visible effects of the beating. No wonder nobody wants to look me in the face. Luckily, she healed quickly and the bruises were turning green and yellow, letting her fudge the time of the incident.
“During the burn, a latch failed on a locker.” Ariane kept her voice casual. “I slammed into the door when I tried to close it without gravity. My fault.”
“Looks more like the results of a brawl,” Dokos said bluntly, her eyes narrowing. “Are you sure we haven’t met before, perhaps when you were regular?”
Oh, Great Bull-shit. Now she remembered when she’d met Dokos, or rather, when Lieutenant Karen Ahrilan Argyris had a check ride with Major Dokos from Wing Evaluation. The ride started off badly, considering that Major Dokos had no sense of humor and was annoyed when Lieutenant Argyris showed up late, sporting a broken nose from a bar brawl. Her nose was different now, but who could tell under the puffy bruising? She had to have faith in the false records and the obscuring power of the rejuv treatments. If Argyris were still alive, she’d look much older than Reserve Major Kedros.
I’m Ariane Kedros, she told herself firmly. I’m a commercial pilot, with a reserve commission of major.
“Sorry, Colonel. I don’t think so.” She raised her eyebrows. “Unless you were stationed at Pelagos Naga Maintenance in ’ninety-seven, or—” Blah, blah, blah. Everyone in the military could rattle off their assignments and Ariane took the opportunity to bore the civilians with her list.
Dokos shook her head, luckily never intersecting with Ariane’s false career, which was as obscure and lackluster as Owen Edones could design. Her reserve assignments for the Directorate were classified, of course, and couldn’t be mentioned.
“Ms. Kedros, I want to express our thanks for being included in this exploration.” Wescott’s voice was warm and surprisingly genuine. “We know that you didn’t have to lease claims to Terran-owned corporations—”
“Making our lives a living hell,” Sewick said.
“Those of us who sub to Boeing-Zhou-Kunal, at least, are grateful for Aether Exploration’s input and help.” Wescott glanced sideways, but he didn’t acknowledge Sewick’s interjection. “Other claim owners might leave us at the mercy of the Consortium’s S-triple-ECB.”
Sewick muttered something under his breath that sounded like “damn flunkies,” a reference to SEEECB personnel.
“You’re welcome,” Ariane said to Wescott. She looked for signs that he was practicing somaural projection and saw none. He fit the average ideal that Terrans strived for: medium build, skin that couldn’t qualify as either light or dark, and regular features. Like all Terrans, his fashion sense was questionable, but he seemed sincere. He dressed in a conservative jumpsuit with a tailored jacket made from tweeds of muddy colors that blended into nothingness.
Unfortunately, she didn’t want to like Wescott. She’d spent most of her travel time in the elevator thinking up ways to either fire the Terran contractors or make their lives so miserable they’d quit—all because Parmet didn’t keep up his end of their double-blackmail bargain. Wescott didn’t know anything about her background, so why should he and his employees suffer because Parmet had spilled Ariane’s secrets to his psychotic wife?
Wescott’s ignorance became even more obvious with his next words. “Our adviser, Ms. Guillotte, sends her regrets. She’s got a VIP coming in for a tour. She said that you and she are already acquainted.”
“Oh, yes, Maria and I have already met.” Ariane smiled. Maria kidnapped me and then dumped me, unconscious, in an addict commons—yes, we’ve met. Her head felt strange, but whether it was from the beating or this surreal situation, she didn’t know.
“We tried to get the best exper
ts we could find,” Wescott added.“We hired Dr. Myrna Fox Lowry, one of the foremost astrophysicists on Mars, to be part of our on-site staff.”
“She’s still quite young—we’ve got the established cos mologist, Mr. Novak.” Sewick wasn’t about to be outdone by the Terrans.
“Whom you hired away from one of our subs.” Barone raised his deep voice for the first time.
“Better benefits always win out,” Sewick replied in a satisfied tone as he stared back at Barone, but Ariane felt no hostility between the men. The world of research and development, whether for government, military, or civilian contracts, was small and the players well-known. Workers were itinerant, moving from contractor to contractor, hoping their scientific specialty would be in demand on the next contract.
“Gentlemen, please.” Colonel Dokos’s cool tone grabbed everyone’s attention. “Ms. Kedros brought us a new reporting matrix that should help. I hope the matrix is approved?”
“Yes, we have the board’s approval, although it wasn’t easy to get them to agree to the shortcuts,” Ariane said.
The CAW SEEECB flunkies, as they were not so affectionately called, tracked leases and contracts between all the organizations. The companies doing the actual work on the site, whether mining or exploring, were usually subcontractors to a contractor of the lessee. That meant reports went through at least two layers of indirection and obscuration before they even flowed out of G-145. Out of sheer frustration, the SEEECB demanded that Aether Exploration (aka Matt) put together a workable reporting matrix for the organizations that operated and leased Matt’s claims.
“Good, we’ll adjourn to our best conference room and go over the matrix. Everybody’s here, right?” Wescott hesitated and exchanged glances with the other prime contractors.
“What?” Ariane asked. What were they hiding?
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