“In social mythology, human beings are supposed to have an aura, an expression of the soul. Indeed, all people do exude a halo of electromagnetic energy. They also radiate in the infrared. When in an emotional state, that radiation changes, as does the electromagnetic field. Respiration, pupil dilation, muscular activity, all reflect the inner environment of a human being.” Ngoro smiled. “Fortunately, I can’t read minds as the rumors suggest. To do so would be a terrible condemnation.”
Connie shifted. “It would?”
“Of course. Consider the billions of thoughts you would encounter. Thinking, despite the perceptions, is a terribly violent act. The thoughts we formulate are statistical probabilities assembled out of a warring conflagration of neurons. To receive that unfiltered would be devastating to one’s own mind—a projection of confusion.”
Connie nodded agreement. “I think I can imagine.”
Ngoro smiled benignly. “I’m sure you can. It’s all part of the quanta of the mind—God’s fingerprint on the universe, if you will.”
“Bah! There you are!” a brash voice exploded behind her. She turned to see Nikita Malakova reaching a ham-like hand to shake Ngoro’s. “If I did not come over, you would know I was avoiding you. Is problem you have, Norik. Reading men’s minds doesn’t allow socially acceptable deception to be employed in name of politeness. Is good thing you don’t have pretty wife. You would have assassinated me years ago for deliciously lecherous thoughts.“
Ngoro smiled serenely. “Nikita. It’s been a long time.”
“Indeed.” Malakova ran appreciative eyes over Connie, adding, “You are here with beautiful woman, so I decide is safe to come talk. When you read my mind, all the lies are hidden behind rapturous love of ravishing beauty.”
Ngoro shook his head. “You haven’t changed. You still enjoy making up fabrications of reality to hide your true self. Are you still lying about your wives, Nikita?”
“I . . . er . . . uh . . . Tell me. You do not get many invitations to parties, receptions, or social galas, do you, Norik?”
“No, Nikita. Is that important?”
“I ... No. Is not important. But provides trivial bit of data for edification of beautiful woman.” Nikita reached for Connie’s hand, kissing it gently, thick beard tickling. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Nikita Malakova, earnest Representative of Gulag Sector.”
Connie bowed slightly. “My pleasure, Representative Malakova. And may I present my father, Archon, Speaker of Star’s Rest.”
“Delighted.” Malakova buried Archon’s thick hand in a friendly grip. “Is pleasure to meet centerpiece of perplexing puzzle which brings so many shadowy figures into light. Good, perhaps you can tell me what big mystery is. What great secret of Star’s Rest will do for working billions who sweat and labor to keep human kind expanding to stars.”
Archon chuckled. “The rumors of your bluntness have been greatly misleading.”
“Perhaps.” Malakova laughed from deep in his belly. “But I smelled something on Arcturus. Besides, any chance to get away from bourgeois lying politicians and enjoy junket with beautiful woman is worthwhile, eh?” He turned to Connie. “Perhaps you would take time to drop by my cabin for in-depth discussions on trade between Star’s Rest and Gulag—”
“Nikita?” Ngoro warned.
“I . . . uh . . . Very well. Perhaps I might have meant it would be nice to have social occasion. Feel free to bring Speaker Archon with you as honored—”
“Nikita?” Ngoro raised an eyebrow.
“Bah!” The big man glared at his tormentor. “What? You think I am some sort of lecherous fiend interested only in taking advantage of beautiful woman for personal satisfaction?”
“No.”
“Bah! See!” Nikita winked at Connie.
“I think you are more complex than that. Personal satisfaction has little to do with the way you’d take advantage of—”
“Norik?”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps is time you went to stare over Lietov’s shoulder, hmm? Not only that, but I thought I saw Amahara looking for you earlier. In other words—since you see sordid lie in that—is time for you to leave.”
“A pleasure to have met you, Constance.” Norik smiled, still focused on some distance point. As he walked away, he added over his shoulder, “Last time Nikita and I met, he claimed I had no sense of humor.”
CHAPTER X
Sabot Sellers spun in his command chair, watching through his bridge screens as brilliant streaks of light lanced vacuum. Hunter and the rest of his fleet spaced for jump. Black daggers, they rose on shining blue-silver shafts of reaction mass, the finest of Arpeggio’s fighting machines, stripped now but for the basics. Each as deadly as the flat black heat-shielding paint suggested. Predators of the darkness, such ships had given Arpeggio the power and clout she now justly claimed. No Confederate power would dare pay the cost to destroy her.
Around him, Hunter hummed, the familiar vibrations and noises of the ship soothing. His command chair sat at the back of the horseshoe-shaped bridge. At other points, officers bent over their duty stations, keeping track of reaction, navcomm and scanning. Exposed to full view, the overhead screens glowed, displaying ship’s status and nav information.
“Admiral?” the comm officer called. “We’ve got sub-space from House Alhar.”
Sellers nodded. “Put it on my arm screen. Audio through my headset only.”
The cathode beside his left hand glowed to life; Alhar’s withered face filled the screen. “Admiral Sellers, we’ve received word that Sirius and New Maine are involving their own forces. How much they suspect remains to be seen. I have reviewed the intelligence supplied by your Arcturian operative.” A slight pause. “I would not like to believe that her information is incomplete. Nor would I cast aspersions on her abilities; however, I seriously suspect more is at hand than your report indicates. I will assume your errors of omission do not reflect upon your loyalties. I will assume you have security reasons. To assume anything else . . . well, it would bring unpleasantness we could ill afford since the Great Houses have provided your fleet. Further, the officers we’ve loaned you might take a dim view of treason.
“On a more positive note, our Sirian sources have become very polite . . . and even less informative. Such behavior from our trusted Sirian allies leads me to be suspicious. At the same time, Sabot, you yourself are at the doorway to greatness. It would pain all the Great Houses if you failed to act with discretion.
“We look forward to your observations on the above matters.”
The holo flickered off.
“So, they’re suspicious.” He chuckled humorlessly. “Security? Indeed. If they only knew just what was at stake, even they would shudder.” Louder, he called, “Comm! Message to House Alhar.” Sellers waited until the light on the pickup flickered to life. “Lord Alhar, I have received and understand your message. Thank you for the insight into the Sirian situation. Please be aware that I fully appreciate the power and resources of the Great Houses. I assure you, I will do nothing to jeopardize my position. My only goal is to further Arpeggian power and influence.
“Concerning your allegations about my intelligence report, could you be more specific as to where you be lieve deficiencies lie?” He looked over at the comm officer. “Send it.”
“Yes, sir. Sent.”
There, that would buy him a little more time. Relativity being what it was, the old man might have even died while Sabot detailed his message. The effect worsened, of course, as Hunter neared the speed of light. But then, by the time they prepared for the jump, he should have heard something from Boaz. Indeed, it paid to have talent you could trust. Talent you knew wouldn’t double on you. Besides, he’d heard from his agents in Arcturus, knew that everything had gone according to plan. House Sellers rode Boaz—and, who knew, by the time it all came to a conclusion, perhaps Boaz, with all her secrets, would be his.
And Solomon Carrasco? Reports indicated he was a broken man.
“As I smashed your Gage, Carrasco, so shall I take your Boaz.”
* * *
The tall man slipped quietly through the hatch, walking stealthily up the long corridors. He hesitated, looked carefully around, then furtively palmed the security hatch. As the hatch slid back, he stepped into the personal quarters section reserved for the Council Representatives. He counted hatches and stopped before the one he wanted.
“Boaz, open the hatch.”
“I must inform you that the quarters you’re about to enter are restricted under diplomatic—”
“Boaz, access file fifteen twelve one. I said, open the hatch.”
Before him, the heavy portal slid sideways.
Inside the room, he slipped an instrument from his belt pouch, flipping the toggle on the side to study the readout. Moving with catlike grace, he checked the room and ran his instrument along each of the walls. A red digital display flickered with rapidly changing numbers.
He stepped into the sleeping quarters, working his way around the rumpled bedding, watching the readout. He grunted, bent down, and lifted a pair of black tubes from a personal kit stowed neatly beside the bed. A faint, sweet odor lingered in the air.
He laid the black tubes on the bedding, pulling a second scanner from his pouch. He centered the device by means of the viewfinder before it clicked softly through several exposures.
With deft fingers he replaced the tubes exactly where they had been, retraced his steps to the corridor hatch and—checking first—slipped into the hall, padding silently back the way he’d come.
* * *
Archon’s hatch snicked quietly closed behind Sol and he found himself in a stark three-room cabin, everything neatly stowed, nothing out of place. The room was that of a long-time spacer all the way down to the pressure suit, gloves, and helmet ring hung ready to don in an emergency. Archon had not been idly boasting about his spacing abilities.
“Captain,” Archon walked out to greet him. “Come, tell me to what good fortune I owe this visit.” The Speaker led him into the rear compartment where several stacks of documents and memo crystals had been neatly ordered on a tightly made bunk. On the other side, Connie appeared to be buried under a mountain of tapes, holocubes, and old-fashioned papers. She glanced up, that ever-present reservation in those cobalt-blue eyes. He nodded to her, aware again of her aloof beauty as she pulled a long red strand back behind her ear. Why did she take his breath away like that?
She wore a snug-fitting two-piece yellow and black outfit that accented her lithe body. Sol couldn’t help thinking of a tigress. The look she gave him augmented the feeling.
“Looks like work,” he said, more to her than Archon.
“What can I do for you, Captain?” Archon asked as he pulled at his grizzly beard, a twitch of a smile visible beneath his mustache. The twinkle in his eye indicated he enjoyed the effect his daughter had on men.
“Snip’s business.” Sol forced himself to concentrate on the Speaker. He hesitated.
“Anything you have to say may be said before my daughter. She and I have no secrets regarding the present state of affairs. In fact, should I be unable to fulfill my duties, you will act under her authority as Speaker.”
“Very well, you should know then that sensors have picked up two ships accelerating out of Arcturus— evidently trying to match vector with our course.”
Archon nodded faintly. “The scent of blood draws the pack.”
“You wouldn’t know who they might be?”
Archon shook his head slowly. “No, they could be anyone from the opposition parties ... or even the friendlies, for that matter. Sirius, Arpeggio, Terra . . . who knows? I’m only surprised they organized so quickly. Somewhere in the Confederacy there has been a leak of major proportions.”
“President Palmiere,” Constance growled. “I told you at the time I didn’t trust him. He’s a power monger . . . and we told him everything.”
“We had to tell him. Without the Confederacy we’d have nothing!” Archon’s voice held a note of desperation. “I ... Never mind, we’ve had this conversation before.” Lowering himself into a chair, he looked up at Sol. “Maybe I’m getting old. I see things differently. Connie says I changed on Star’s Rest. Changed after we found . . . Well, I don’t know.“ He smiled slyly. ”Perhaps it’s the juices of youth that make her think she can lick the universe single-handed.“
“Or perhaps I’m just too cautious. While we’re at it, Father, isn’t this a time to exercise a little caution of our own?” She raised an eyebrow, glancing pointedly at Sol.
“Please, don’t stop on my account,” Sol prodded. “It’s starting to sound interesting.”
Archon shrugged, hands out. “Yes, girl, you’re right. All in good time, Captain. I am already surprised at your forbearance in an untenable situation.”
“Considering that you destroyed Sword over Arpeggio . . . so am I.”
“Yes, Connie said you’d made that connection.” He smiled wistfully, the memory of an old hurt in his eyes. “I learned a valuable lesson above Arpeggio, Captain. I’d never realized . . . Well, the blinders came off. You might say, I grew up that day. Somewhere along the line, we all have to pay a price for our lives ... for our actions. I paid that day. Doing something I knew . . . knew deep down inside . . . was wrong. I paid so very, very dearly for it.”
“So did Sword and thirty of my friends and companions, Speaker. But I didn’t come to beg an explanation. I’ve got my orders from the Galactic Grand Master, and I’ll follow them. Right now, my concern hinges on those two ships racing after us. Who are they?”
Archon stiffened. “I don’t know.”
“Are they dangerous?”
He shook his head slowly. “Honestly, Captain, I can’t tell you. Have you asked them?”
“They refuse to answer a hailing.”
Connie’s cool voice interrupted from the side. “I think their actions speak for themselves.”
“Yes, I suppose they do.” Sol turned on his heel. “Thank you for your cooperation, Speaker.”
Sol felt a churning sensation in his gut as the hatch slid shut behind him.
* * *
Tayash Niter slouched in the gravchair, sipping Arcturian single malt, his long shiny black cane propped before him. His withered features reminded Nikita of a sucked orange. The deep lines around Niter’s face made him look gnomish. As a result, people tended to forget themselves, say things they considered too deep for the tottering ancient. Those who underestimated Tayash always came to regret it later.
They sat in a corner where they could observe the lounge, a full wall holo of the Mysterian swamps blowing foggy and forbidding on one wall with svee moss hanging from the weirdly-shaped plants the settlers naively called “trees.”
“You’ve uncovered the secret behind this voyage?”
“Not yet.” Nikita frowned at the overhead panels. “Is something big. Notice how Lietov talks all around final destination, but never about it? I must give credit to fellow political scum, they tiptoe on edges of real issue with fancy feet. Perhaps is social adaptation in human political animal, hmm? Say everything so anyone can read any meaning into it they wish?”
“I bet it’s got something to do with toron. That or hyperconductors. Name two more precious resources in all of space? Archon’s found a bunch of the stuff. Enough to tip the balance of power. That’s what it is. It’s got to be. Nothing else could spark the political firepower we’ve got aboard.”
“You call Joseph Young political firepower?”
“Well, maybe not, but I don’t call Medea a silly virgin either. Or Lietov, for that matter, or Jordan. And Mikhi Hitavia and Geller aren’t pushovers in anyone’s book.”
“Then why bring in Brotherhood?”
“Who controls most of the manufacturing and mining rights? Who discovered most of the mineral reserves in the Confederacy and who licenses them to various planets?”
They sat silently for a while, lost in though
t.
“No. Is something dangerous. Capable of tipping balance of power. Toron, for all its value, would simply be matter of licensing,” Nikita decided.
“And this Captain? This Carrasco?”
Nikita lifted a slab of shoulder. “I don’t know. So far, he seems to be honest man.”
“Hah!” Tayash jabbed at the air with his cane. “One honest man among a writhing mass of social maggots!”
“Who you call social maggot?”
“What’s a politician?”
“You call me a social maggot?”
“You’re here living off your constituent stations, aren’t you? Who pays for all those fancy Arcturian whores you wine and dine every time you get a chance? Who rents your apartment? Pays the chit on your meals?”
Nikita shuffled his bulk in the gravchair, pulling at his thick black beard. “I am champion of oppressed peoples. I come here to see to their interests, to see that no bourgeois terrorist governments exploit sweat of working men and women traditionally ground beneath boot heel of privileged. That is social maggot?”
“You damn betcha!” Tayash chuckled. “You’re a sorry case, Nikita. Look at you sitting there, a cup of the finest sherry from Santa del Cielo in one hand, your belly full of the finest beef from Range, and you can look me in the eye and say you’re fighting the battle of the benighted masses?”
“Of course I can. Is like this. Battle must be fought on many fronts. Some include running printing press in back rooms of Moscow section of Arcturian slums. Other fight is to kick Sirian secret agent out pressure lock and watch him flop in vacuum to keep Sirius from developing political domination they really seek. Still other part is to remind bourgeois diplomat like you that universe doesn’t end with Confederate Council. Real people are spinning around out in stations, struggling on planets to run mines, work machines, do all things which make our lives better. My battle is to remind you that all decisions we make in Council affect real lives out in Confederacy. Maybe sometimes you powerful and wealthy types forget, eh?“
The Artifact Page 15