“That’s the Bright Crescent with a high-priority message,” Floros said. “Pilgrimage Headquarters has issued Declarations of Emergency to both the Consortium and the League.”
Ariane hid her hands under her folded arms and tightened them into fists. Her first reaction at the sight of the homicidal redhead was to force an apology, preferably through pummeling. However, she’d spent her adult life trusting her senses but not always acting on her first reaction. Right now, her senses told her she wasn’t in danger. She remained standing as Parmet’s first wife introduced herself as Garnet Westwind Tachawee and gestured at the redhead, who threw herself onto the ledge.
“That’s Sabina Sky Cavanagh, my co-wife. They’ve taken our son, Chander, and husband, Isrid, or rather State Prince Isrid Sun Parmet,” Garnet said.
Colonel Dokos introduced everyone already in the room, getting around to Ariane last. Sabina’s hand, initially lying against her thigh, flashed a signal. Garnet stiffened.
Ariane stepped forward to stand in front of Garnet, making sure she was out of kicking range. This wife might be just as vengeful.
“I think Sabina feels we’re enemies,” Ariane said to Garnet. “I might have agreed, six months ago. However, wouldn’t you say it’s time to forget the war, under the current circumstances?”
“Fine words,” Sabina said coldly from the bench. “You heal quickly, Kedros. Don’t speak to her, Garnet—someone will be rescuing us soon.”
Garnet’s head jerked back to look at Ariane’s face. Her warm hazel gaze slowly examined the bruises. Then she looked back at Sabina, whose hand signals were hidden from everyone in the room except Garnet and Ariane. Garnet’s face paled.
“I—” Garnet’s eyes became both chilly and perplexed. She glanced at Ariane, then stumbled to the bench and sat down. “I’m sorry, Ms. Kedros.”
Sorry? Even Sabina looked puzzled by Garnet’s reaction. Ariane went to the divider wall and leaned against it. This put her close to the middle of the triangular room, where she could watch everyone. Garnet composed herself, but remained withdrawn. She didn’t know who I was until Sabina told her.
Colonel Dokos watched this exchange, but apparently chose to ignore everything but the present issue. “You’re wrong in expecting rescue, Sabina. We might have to assume the worst case: Someone has taken over this solar system, probably while the buoy has been locked down by the generational ship.”
“What about the Minoans? They’re not going to like this rampant lawlessness.” Dr. Lowry sounded hopeful.
“They’d have to use a locked-down buoy,” Ariane said. “We need to be our own law and fend off these criminals with our own hands.”
“Don’t the Minoans have override codes?”
Dokos shook her head. “That’s a rumor and we can’t depend upon their rescue or perhaps, their retribution. Besides, I don’t want to be the target for a Minoan attack.”
“We supply the Minoan contractors with data,” Varra said. “According to them, the Minoans are only interested in our research methods.”
“Let’s get to basics, and figure out how many people are involved. Perhaps—”
Dokos was interrupted as the door opened and two men walked in. They could have been brothers, but the first man was much younger. They had similar scowls, black hair cut ragged and sticking out in random spikes. They’d been exposed to planetary sun and wind, although the second man had lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth and down his cheeks. They were not happy lines; this man rarely smiled.
Ariane looked quickly at the five women on the bench, searching for a spark of recognition. None of the others had seen these men before, and neither had she. The way they strode into the room made them look like what Matt called “grav-huggers,” those used to the strong gravity of planets.
“Everyone on the bench.” The younger man gestured at Ariane with his flechette pistol.
She complied quickly, noting his wild eyes. His gaze flitted about the room and flared alternately with anger and excitement. She settled on the bench between Varra and Dr. Lowry.
The older man took up position beside the door, quietly acting as servitor, while the young man went to the end of the bench and stood directly in front of Varra. She flinched at the pistol he held in her face. Ariane laid her hand on Varra’s forearm, trying to give her courage.
“What company do you work for?”The pistol was steady, even though the voice held deep currents of emotion.
“Telepresence Systems, contracted to Taethis Exploration,” Varra answered.
“Do you work with the Minoan contractors?” The pistol trembled a tiny bit.
“Well, I”—Ariane dug her fingers into Varra’s arm and drew in her breath—“don’t think so.”
The wild young man wasn’t particularly observant in subtleties of human communication. He kept his gaze on Varra’s face and frowned. “You don’t think so, woman?”
“I—I don’t know.” Varra was stuttering and Ariane kept gripping her arm.
“Stupid cow. What about you?” He stepped sideways to hold the pistol in Ariane’s face.
“I work for Aether Exploration. Recently arrived—don’t know anything about Minoans.” She gave this short answer as example to the others. The tingling on her scalp ran down her neck; she knew, by the waves of rage she felt roll off the young man, that no one should work with the Minoans—not if they wanted to live.
The young man accepted her ignorance quite readily, and the pistol moved to Dr. Lowry’s face.
“My employer is the Physics Department of MIT, and I’m contracted to work a year for Boeing-Zhou-Kunal, which is Terran.”
Ariane leaned back against the wall so she could watch the other women. Garnet looked up guilelessly as she explained that she was here on an informational tour and no, she didn’t know who worked for whom. Ariane initially thought Garnet had no somaural projection skills, but now she amended that opinion. The best projectors gave no hint of their abilities. Garnet was open with a perfect touch of fear as she faced a weapon that could tear apart her skull. Sabina was good at somaural projection, but she liked to show her capabilities. She scowled back at the young man as she answered the same as Garnet.
“Well, you’re all luckier than you know.” The pistol reached Colonel Dokos, but now the man stepped back out of range.
“Stand up and keep your hands away from your body,” he said.
“I don’t work for Minoan contractors,” Dokos said as she stood. Following his instructions, she kept her hands palm forward and away from her hips.
“I know whom you work for.” He glanced up and down her uniform, finishing at her shoulder rank.
“Dokos, Colonel, service number—”
“Shut up!”
Dokos stopped.
“You know Abram’s orders, Emery,” said the older man at the door. He sounded bored, but respectful.
“I know,” Emery shot back, over his shoulder. His eyes were bright and excited, looking like a young boy daring to do something he’d never done before . . . like execute a woman in cold blood.
Ariane looked at the older man, then Emery. “Don’t—”
“Stay still. All of you.” The older man at the door stepped forward and pulled Varra upright. He gripped her arm tightly and held his flechette pistol pointed at the soft fleshy area, at Varra’s waist. “Do I have to explain how this round will tear her apart, in ways that no one can put back together? Or how long it’ll take her to die?”
Varra closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, but a small whimper came out anyway. The man holding her stared at Ariane. “They’re breeding stock, Emery. It doesn’t matter how they react—just put down the uniform.”
Emery pulled out a stun wand with his other hand and motioned Dokos to step behind the partition. “Over there.”
Ariane exchanged a glance with Colonel Dokos, whose eyes flickered over the bench of women and Varra, held tightly against a flechette weapon. Ariane raised an eyebrow. Should she r
esist? Fight? But Dokos’s dark eyes said, No, not without civilian casualties. She disappeared behind the partition and Ariane looked down at her hands, lying useless in her lap.
Dokos tried to struggle. They all heard a scuffle, but it was short and decisive. They heard the stunner sizzle, followed by a body dropping and flopping, sounding loud in the small room.
Beside Ariane, Dr. Lowry moaned. Ariane put her arm about her shoulders and Dr. Lowry ducked her head down, as if she could avoid the sound. The stun wand crackled and buzzed again, higher, causing her teeth to hurt. She clamped her jaw shut. Thumps came from behind the partition.
“What’s that?” Dr. Lowry mumbled the question into Ariane’s shoulder.
“Lethal use of a stun wand,” Ariane replied.
The whine went on and on, unending. Unadulterated rage rose inside her and spread a hard and calculated calm throughout her body. She looked up and locked gazes with the older man holding Varra, directing a murderous blast of anger at him. His eyes widened. If she could get close enough to kill him, she would—and he knew it.
The room was suddenly silent. No one moved.
“What’re they doing?” whispered Dr. Lowry, her face still buried in Ariane’s neck and shoulder.
“He’s making sure she can’t be resuscitated.” Ariane’s lips and tongue were stiff, her voice dull.
Everyone waited—forever. The smell of burned flesh spread through the room. Dr. Lowry pulled away from Ariane and covered her face in her hands. Varra whimpered, her knees obviously shaking and her eyes closed. Emery finally reappeared. He holstered the wand, his pistol still in his right hand. He looked at the bench of women, where three tearless faces watched him steadily. He seemed puzzled.
“If there’s any other military on-site, it’s in your best interest to tell us.” He spoke firmly, building up bluster with every word.
Silence.
“We’ll leave the body so you can mourn—appropriately—er, whatever rites women do on your worlds. We’ll get a body bag.” Emery stared at each woman, flinching when he looked into Ariane’s face.
The older man pushed Varra toward the bench. She stumbled and sank to her knees beside Ariane. Both men backed out of the room, closing the door behind them. Varra collapsed into a ball and threw up at Ariane’s feet. The sharp, acrid smell of vomit barely displaced the burned flesh and other odors that followed death.
Her chest felt as if it were going to burst from fury. You bastards think mourning is women’s work? Wait and see what justice can be, when served by a woman.
CHAPTER 13
Turning in the tags can get to you. Facing your commander and setting down tag after tag, one for every service member you lost . . .
—Interviews: the Weight of War, AFCAW MSgt. Pike, 2092.098.12.02 UT, indexed by Heraclitus 12 under Conflict Imperative
Nobody’s coming to help us. They can’t get into the system because the buoy’s locked. In retrospect, Matt had made a big mistake—a fatal mistake. Their movement had used up too much propulsion and energy for a module equipped with short-term life support. Matt didn’t have accurate consumption rates. Regardless, it didn’t look good.
They tried to keep their oxygen consumption as low as possible. The module drifted into the targeted position, close enough to the arrival channel to have real-time communications, yet hopefully, many kilometers away from any mines. After some minor station-keeping maneuvers, Matt dialed down the oxygen levels even further and they waited. No one arrived from N-space.
David Ray’s leg continued to swell, which was bad. When examining it, they couldn’t decide whether it was infected or poisoned. Matt dosed him again with stringent antibiotics, thanking St. Darius that they had toilet facilities because of what would happen to David Ray’s digestive tract.
At this point, David Ray suggested they crack open some of the expensive liquor. “After all, alcohol’s a depressant. It might slow our oxygen consumption.”
“Combining alcohol with your pain meds could—”
“What? Induce a coma before I run out of oxygen?” David Ray shifted and winced. “Bring it on.”
Considering their situation and David Ray’s pain, Matt stopped resisting his suggestion. If we’re going to die out here, we might as well be stinking drunk. He carefully pushed toward the bar and adeptly caught the customer side, letting his momentum flip him over to the service side. He selected a fancy-looking liquor bottle for David Ray and a beer for himself; both were in resealable polycarbonate that he fitted with zero-gee suction inserts.
Despite his morbid intention to pass out, Matt found that he couldn’t let go of his hope. While David Ray sucked down his liquor, Matt sipped cautiously and continued to monitor the buoy’s arrival channel the only way he could: visually through the cam-eyes.
“Here’s another crazy but surprisingly plausible theory about the Minoans.” David Ray took another deep swallow of liquor. His bottle was half empty, yet his pronunciation was precise and clear.
Matt raised his eyebrows. After that much liquor, he’d be slurring and singing embarrassing limericks. Ari’s right; I am a lightweight.
“Go on,” Matt said, since David Ray appeared to be waiting.
“Perhaps they’re not the result of evolved intelligence.” David Ray looked triumphant.
“Meaning what? They’re constructed, like AIs?”
“Even stranger. Maybe they’re Boltzmann brains.”
“So who created them?” Matt watched the display. If he kept David Ray babbling nonsense, perhaps the liquor would eventually take over and give the poor man relief. Boltzmann brains, indeed! Even though David Ray wasn’t slurring, he was becoming a bit unsealed around the edges.
“That’s the thing. Nobody created them. Didn’t you cover Boltzmann in your early science classes?”
This time, Matt had to give him a withering glance. “I’m crèche-get, remember? We use his equations to analyze gaseous mixtures.” All of which project our imminent death.
“That’s physical chemistry. He also shook the world with his theories of entropy and probability.”
“I thought you mentioned brains. He also worked in biochemistry?” Matt took another small sip and went back to watching the display.
“No, the idea of a Boltzmann brain came much later, though it’s based upon his ideas of probability. The theory is...” David Ray’s eyes closed and Matt thought he’d fallen asleep, but he suddenly opened his eyes and continued with renewed vigor. “Anything might spontaneously come into being even though it has a minute probability of doing do. So intelligence might pop into existence on its own, rather than evolving or developing.”
“Yeah, I vaguely remember that from my cosmology.” Matt scratched his nose. It didn’t seem relevant to mention he’d almost flunked the subject. “But the theory is about intelligence rather than life, right? And that sort of intelligence isn’t supposed to happen until billions and billions of years have passed, toward the end of our universe.”
“That’s the thingk about probabililility.” David Ray’s words were slurring, hindering his clipped enunciation. His eyes twinkled and he took another hefty gulp of liquor. “Just because somthingk isn’t probabable, doesn’t mean it can’t happen, even in the first seconds of the universe.”
“Why don’t you close your eyes,” Matt said in a soothing voice.
David Ray did exactly that, continuing to mutter incomprehensibly.
Matt sighed and stared at the visual display, which he set at high magnification. He was tired and sleepy from the low oxygen content in the air. He watched the blinking lights of the buoy and they became mesmerizing. Perhaps if he closed his eyes . . . at the edge of the display, a flare of heat and light changed the picture.
“Whoa!” He sat upright, his heart racing. “Lower display-two’s magnification by ten and pan right. Stop!”
David Ray opened his eyes at Matt’s outburst and looked at the display in puzzlement. “Air’s nothin’ dere.”
&nb
sp; Matt’s lungs labored and he squinted at the display, feeling dizzy. With effort, he slowed his panting. He was sure something had set off the mines in a distinctly bloblike area. He wished he had the instrumentation available on the Aether’s Touch.
“Increase magnification by ten. Again.” Matt definitely got a sense of distortion from that area of the channel.
“We might be looking at some sort of stealth technology,” Matt said.
“Wishful tinkin’—you’re hallucinatink.” David Ray shut his eyes again.
“I should try a distress call. Perhaps tell them that we see them.”
“Ever’one’ll hear ya.” David Ray was reminding him the broadcast was omnidirectional, meaning the isolationists on the Pilgrimage III would hear his distress call.
Matt chewed on this complication for a moment. Sure, it hurt his ego that the criminals who took over the generational ship would hear his pleas for help, but David Ray might be making a different point. Don’t give away a stealth arrival, you idiot, provided one even exists!
Matt eventually settled for broadcasting, “To all ships in the area, we require emergency assistance under the Phaistos Humanitarian Directives. Our coordinates are—” He added their sun-centered coordinates, which everyone understood inside a newly opened solar system. He would have liked to add something like, This means you, silent ship in buoy arrival channel, but David Ray was correct in his caution. Even if he couldn’t articulate well, he was thinking more clearly than Matt.
“Useless,” David Ray muttered after Matt recorded the message and set up a repeating broadcast.
“Maybe.” Matt watched the display hopefully, but nothing changed. His eyelids kept crashing down and time seemed to flit by between his evaluations of the display. A half hour passed. Then an hour.
His heart was laboring on full thrust and he was beginning to identify the subtle effects of hypoxia, which could cause anything from irrational decisions, even hallucinations, to gently passing—had he just seen a mine explode on the display?
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