“There’s a hole in the security and control mechanisms. It’s classified,” Parmet said.
He had her full attention. “What?”
“Our test protocols can arm and detonate a weapon, provided it goes through certain environmental conditions. Dr. Rouxe would certainly know the required sequence. The weapon has to be enabled with correct test codes, then experience a certain high-gee pattern.” Parmet paused, licked his cracked lip nervously, and continued. “That’ll arm the weapon and start the detonation sequence. When testing, the timing of the detonation was critical because the TD wave had to expand inside a Penrose Fold boundary.”
“You dumped the temporal-distortion wave into N-space.” Her eyes widened. “I thought the Minoans forbade that.”
“They didn’t have the means to control us, by their definition, until Pax Minoica was signed.” He tried to shrug and instead, winced. “During the war, it was too expensive and time-consuming for us to test weapons the way the Consortium did, by reducing to a negligible yield and boosting the package several light-years away from the detectors. Then Ura-Guinn happened, and the Minoans pushed Pax Minoica. In the first treaty, which wasn’t surprising to us, they stopped all TD testing. We signed, and no more dumping.”
“During your tests, the Minoans didn’t notice any problems with the buoys?” She wondered if the Directorate of Intelligence knew about this shortcut used by the Terrans.
He smiled thinly. “Strange, huh? We dumped low-yield TD waves into N-space regularly for years, and nothing happened to the buoy network. AFCAW detonated a TD weapon in real-space, and the buoy network went all to hell. Makes you wonder about the nature of N-space.”
“I’ll let the physicists and cosmologists worry about that. We’ve got to keep these nutcases from making G-145 another Ura-Guinn. I think Abram’s convinced he can survive the detonation, because Ura-Guinn’s sun didn’t blow up.”
She got up and paced the room, finding the water bottle in the corner. “Can you help me with this?” She motioned to the water with her head.
Parmet slid over, in a seated position, to pick up the bottle. He stood and held it for her as she took a swig. When she finished, she backed away.
“For some reason, Tahir is interested in my previous experience, in particular, my N-space drop at Ura-Guinn,” she said. “Maybe he requires my skills.”
“They don’t need an N-space pilot; they can do it from real-space. They don’t care about swallowing the temporal-distortion wave.” He stared at her in a thoughtful manner. Nervous under his scrutiny, she turned her back and continued to pace.
“Well, since almost anybody can pilot real-space, why is Tahir obsessed with me? Particularly with my N-space drop from Ura-Guinn.” She stopped and turned. “Maybe he’s trying to get out from under his father’s thumb. He’s thinking escape.”
Parmet blinked, as if clearing a phantom from his view. “You’ll have a chance to stop them, Major Kedros.”
CHAPTER 16
Many scientific disciplines were neglected due to the
great exodus into space in the twenties [Link to: Minoans,
N-space travel, Minoan motives and gifts]. Biochemical
and medical research, even many basic sciences, were
supplanted by physics, material sciences, and practical
astronomy—anything directly supporting N-space travel
and colonization.
—Putting Medical Science back on Track, Konstantinople
Prime University, 2082.08.09.02 UT, indexed by
Democritus 6 under Cause and Effect Imperative
As he flailed around in oily syrup, Matt desperately wished he knew how to swim. There was no need to swim aboard a generational ship, even for tank maintenance. Later, as a generational orphan who knew he’d be planet-side only when necessary, he’d never considered learning the skill.
He thrashed as he was pulled downward. Suddenly his legs came free. His torso and head followed, and he dropped with a slurping sound onto a shiny, soft floor. A gravity generator was operating and interestingly, he came through with the correct orientation.
“Ugh.” He collapsed into a sitting position and he put his hand to the floor to support himself, only to discover it felt like mucous. When he jerked his hand up, it wasn’t wet or slimy. He fingered his dry jumpsuit, face, and hands. Hadn’t he just come through liquid?
He looked up, then around. He was in a seamless and, excepting the rounded corners, square room. It was approximately three meters in every direction, with no openings, not even above him. Shuddering, he felt around a perimeter of semitransparent green flesh covered with slime. Nothing, however, stuck to his hands. He sniffed. Either he’d become immune to the putrid smells, or the ship itself had a milder, peaty smell than the muck through which he’d recently floundered.
Most important, he was alone.
“Hey, where’s David Ray?” he asked loudly. When there was no response, he ramped up the volume. “Anybody listening?”
He looked up again, trying to see how he entered this space. Was that dark blotch big enough to be a person? Then he remembered some of what David Ray blabbered about titles.
“I am the owner of Aether Exploration.” He tried to speak calmly. “I need to know where the other—where all rescued-persons are held.”
Silence.
He tried, “I wish to know the location of the Pilgrimage general counsel, because he is wounded.”
“Welcome, Owner of Aether Exploration.”
The answer came so fast that he started and the hairs rose on his neck as he tried to find the source of the voice. Where was the node? Cam-eyes, on their own, were almost impossible to spot, but he could usually see where nodes were installed. Provided, of course, that the Minoans used mesh-network technology.
“Pilgrimage General Counsel should be here with me. He needs medical care.” Matt directed his words to the ceiling.
There was a long pause while Matt paced back and forth. Every time he thought of saying something, however, he bit it back.
“Pilgrimage General Counsel is delayed because of damage. Systemic cleansing must occur.”
“What?” Matt pictured David Ray drowning in a vat of caustic cleaning solution. “What are you doing to him?”
As if in answer, one of the walls sighed and a slit appeared. At its bottom, David Ray came through with a slurping sound, making Matt wince, and slid to a stop on the floor. He appeared to be sleeping. Matt knelt beside him and suddenly David Ray’s eyes opened.
“Well, well.” David Ray’s voice was dreamy. “I do feel better.”
“How’s the leg?” Matt stared at what should have been a ragged, flechette-torn, bloody upper thigh. Instead, David Ray’s suit, more formal than Matt’s coveralls, was perfectly clean and pristine. Matt looked down at his clothes, for the first time noting they looked like they’d come from the steamer. They’d been his oldest coveralls with his business logo, but the frayed collar and cuffs now looked new. The fabric was flame and rip resistant; he’d previously punctured the knee in a small triangular tear, but that was repaired also.
“There’s no bandage and it’s tender, but it doesn’t feel infected.” David Ray poked his thigh. He unsealed the seam on the inner thigh and pulled the fabric aside.
Silently they looked at the patched wounds, covered with something that looked like plastiskin, but better. All signs of infection were gone. Matt wondered if the Minoans could tell them whether the flechettes were poisoned. Before David Ray sealed his trousers, he fingered the “healed” fabric thoughtfully.
“Why’d they fix our clothes?” Matt asked.
“Perhaps they think our garments are extensions of ourselves,” David Ray said quietly, frowning. “Our clothes represent our personalities by displaying patterns, colors, or text. Garments can perform computations and store our data, but in the end, they aren’t part of our selves. It might be different for them.”
“You think the Minoan attire
is part of their bodies?”
David Ray didn’t have a chance to reply. Another sigh sounded, and an elongated slit appeared in the opposite wall.
With that same slurping sound that made Matt shudder, a “guardian” entered. This was the name net-think gave the armed escorts that protected Minoan emissaries. Matt thought it was amazing that the guardian, with its headdress of short, sharp horns set in a whirled gold and silver cap, slipped easily through the slit without even turning. Clothed in flowing black, it carried a baton, and stood head and shoulders taller than Matt, which was tall. Even though its garments flowed about to obscure its form, it looked bulkier than Sergeant Joyce—and Joyce had a frighten ingly muscular physique. Matt faced the guardian, closer than he’d ever been to a real Minoan, and fought the urge to step back.
David Ray clutched at Matt’s leg to stand up. “These don’t talk,” he whispered as Matt bent to help him.
Once standing, David Ray tested his leg and nodded approvingly. Then he faced the tall black figure standing in front of the slit, which was still open. Its black garments, if that’s what they were, drifted about on a nonexistent breeze.
“Do we follow you?” David Ray asked.
Very slowly, the guardian nodded—once. The movement was agonizingly slow for Matt, who gritted his teeth and raised himself on his toes. He knew he was both impatient and impulsive—at least that’s what Ari told him.
Now he vibrated with tension. If the Minoans are here, they’re going to chase these assholes back to their solar system! He was also worried: The Minoan directed-energy weapons had legendary accuracy, but perhaps this was more fable than fact. How much collateral damage could result from Minoan justice?
“We’re not armed.” Matt hoped to move the guardian more quickly. He wanted to meet the decision maker on this ship.
“They know that,” David Ray said quietly.
“Right.” They have scanners way beyond our own tech.
The guardian nodded again and turned back to the slit. David Ray appeared to easily follow through the slit, but Matt gritted his teeth before stepping forward. He expected resistance, like trying to squeeze through a membrane. He met none, and almost stumbled with the suddenness of stepping through to the other side. He heard a sigh behind him; whirling, he saw no evidence of the slit.
The guardian’s measured gait led David Ray beyond a curve and Matt hurried to catch up. The tunnel through which they traveled reminded him of a huge intestine and he stepped carefully on the floor because it disturbed him. It looked like shiny wet mucous and felt viscous to his booted feet. It sounded like liquid and made a faint sucking sound when he pulled his boot away, but when he stooped to touch it, his fingers came away dry. It just seemed wrong.
The guardian stopped and turned to the wall, although Matt didn’t know how it could tell where it was going—perhaps those splotches were signposts? It lifted a gloved appendage and placed it on the wall. It appeared to have a five-fingered human hand, but only Gaia knew what was under the glove.
A slit appeared with that same sighing sound, an audible breath of relief. The guardian stepped through. David Ray and Matt followed, stepping into an oval-shaped room. Matt guessed this was either a control or observation deck, but he didn’t see any displays or physical controls. An emissary-type Minoan in red robes stood on a raised central area, with another black guardian behind and to the side.
This was the type of Minoan featured on net-think and simulated in v-plays. Its curved, graceful horns were longer and more impressive than those of a guardian. The tips were capped in worked metal, probably precious, with strings of jewels cascading from each tip in loose loops down to an ornate medallion and collar. Some of the jewel strings disappeared under the red robes near the neck, perhaps hooking into the back of the horned headdress. As with the guardian, the face area was dark and features were distinguishable as shadows, unless the emissary turned and displayed its generic profile.
Matt almost gasped; he’d never seen that many jeweled strings on a Minoan before. He noted that the emissary’s graceful gloved hands were holding two strings each, with particular jewels carefully held between slim fingers. We’re targeted with a weapon. Matt noted the guardian had stepped carefully away from them; he glanced at David Ray, who was watching the emissary’s hands.
“Please explain the explosive devices about the buoy, Pilgrimage General Counsel.” The emissary’s voice was pleasant, but sounded neither male nor female. It lacked vibrancy, yet analyses of Minoan voices indicated they were probably made by organs similar to human lungs, diaphragms, and vocal cords.
Since the Minoan had dispensed with pleasantries, Matt was relieved to let David Ray do the talking. The emissary had focused on him anyway, since he was Pilgrimage and had the responsibility for setting up the time buoy.
“Nonuniformed persons, whom I shall name Criminal Isolationists, have boarded the Pilgrimage Three. Through violent use of flechette weapons, these Criminal Isolationists have taken over the command and control centers.” David Ray explained how they ended up in a free module while Matt looked at the strings of jewels on the emissary. Net-think suggested that the jewel combinations were controls. Matt couldn’t count the jewels, separated by metal ferrules, pouring from this emissary’s horns. This Minoan had a plethora of equipment at its command.
David Ray’s synopsis impressed Matt. Of course, one didn’t become general counsel on a generational ship without having legal-debate experience, and David Ray was a language maestro. He stayed away from personal and informal names, for the benefit of his Minoan listener, as well as highlighting every violation of the Phaistos Protocol that he’d observed. He meticulously emphasized the party at fault, ensuring there’d be no confusing Matt or himself with the perpetrators.
“We were nearly out of oxygen when we noted that several of the criminally planted mines were exploding.” David Ray finished in a flat voice, without even the hint of a question.
Yes, representative of the Great Bull—are you going to explain your invisible ship, which you’ve never shown to mundanes before? Matt narrowly watched the emissary. Having grown up as Journey Generational Line, he didn’t view these beings as gods, but he wasn’t immune to in timidation; the technological level of the Minoans was so high that, for some mundanes, it was indiscernible from magic.
There was a long pause. It passed, by far, being pregnant or awkward. Matt silently prayed for patience.
The dark-gloved hands relaxed. Matt and David Ray relaxed. One hand reached for another string, unerringly picked a brilliant ruby, and twirled it slowly between the second and third finger.
“I am called to this system as contractor adviser. This is our current dilemma.” With its free hand, the emissary gestured toward its right. Even though the red robes didn’t show the structure of its arm, the movement didn’t feel human. This made Matt shiver.
A holographic display beside the emissary appeared and showed the organic outline of the Minoan ship, marred by a sharp square wart on one side. Nice display, and there’s our module. Matt was surprised by the number of red points that clustered about the ship in a regular grid pattern. Both the Minoan ship and Pilgrimage module had drifted and were now surrounded by mines. David Ray looked at Matt, who winced. He’d told David Ray that they’d be kilometers away from the mines, but he was guessing about the mine locations, since he couldn’t see them.
“Knossos-ship is damaged,” Contractor Adviser said.
“What about weapons?” Matt’s heart was sinking.
“As Contractor Adviser, I have some offensive weapons at my disposal, but they cannot be used because of damage to Knossos-ship.”
Of course. Why isn’t anything going right? Matt clenched his fists.
As the hours passed, Floros’s snide comment about absurdity would replay in Oleander’s head. Even if we get into the system, we’re absurdly hobbled, Floros had said, We need three-point insertion and assault. After making another plea to Colonel Edones,
Floros threw her hands up and apparently accepted the conditions imposed by Pilgrimage Headquarters.
Once the crew of the Terran frigate arrived, Oleander sat with eleven other junior officers as Captain Floros did what the Directorate of Intelligence did best, which was provide information on the opposing threat. The briefing was thorough; Floros tried to identify every ship that might exist inside G-145.
“Since a range of advanced surveillance equipment and telebots is available at G-145 for the explorers and arche ologists, we should expect to encounter both standoff and close-support jamming. If so, ship-to-ship comm and weapons targeting may be affected, but our worst enemy will be real-time data.”
Hands raised, questions started, but Floros squelched everything by raising her voice. “We can’t access the buoy’s data channels. Therefore there will be no FTL data available . Period.”
There was stunned silence. Finally, one of the older Terran officers—Oleander wasn’t sure of his rank, considering that he wore a subdued uniform—raised his hand and asked, “What weapons and weapon systems do these isolationists have?”
“Glad you asked, ’cause that’s next.” Floros tapped the podium and a list displayed on the wall above her, with classification of “Secret: Source Protection Required.”
Oleander wondered what source the Directorate might be protecting. Where did they get information regarding the isolationists’ inventory? She put aside her questions to concentrate on Floros’s briefing.
“They’ll have standard poor-man weapons on their vehicles, such as kinetic spikes, perhaps with smart guidance. We also know they have mines, lots of mines. They have only one military weapon system: the State Prince’s retrofitted MIL-8440 Gladiator, now listed as an unarmed TM-8440.”
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