The Artifact

by W. Michael Gear

  “So if I offered you ultimate power, you’d turn it down?”

  He filled his lungs, chest expanding to emphasize his firm pectorals, the line of his ribs, and the flatness of his belly. “That would have been my answer. But a couple of days ago, I had a discussion with our infamous Norik Ngoro. He made some observations about responsibility in a state of nature—and he’s right. Boiling it all down, he said that passing the buck was the ultimate cop-out. That in the end, a truly moral man must assume all the responsibility he can.” He laughed gently, humorlessly. “The ultimate anarchist. He and Nikita ought to get together.”

  “So you’d accept ultimate power and become God?”

  Carrasco’s frown engraved lines in his forehead. “Damned if I know. Both answers are right. Accept ultimate power and remake the universe in my own flawed image? Or pass it on and live in the shadow of someone else’s shortcomings and failures of vision? Whose flaws do I trust? Someone else’s ... or my own? None of us are perfect.”

  She turned her head, enjoying the sight of the billions of stars, the quiet of the room, the presence of this man whose thoughts seemed so in tune with her own. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of not being alone in the universe. And wishing it could last forever.

  His gentle voice soothed. “A most interesting game you’ve created. I’ll let you know when I have the answer. I’m simply afraid of the alternatives.”

  “So am I,” she whispered, cold loneliness returning, draping over her shoulders like a green-ice mantle.

  * * *

  The bridge monitors glowed softly green into the hard unforgiving face of Solomon Carrasco as he watched the lights indicating the positions of the closing ships. They had climbed to within four light-seconds, veered off, and were paralleling Boaz’s course. Hailing continued to bring no response and visual remained too hazy to make an ID as to vessel type—although mass could be computed by measuring reaction spectra and Doppler against acceleration.

  “Ship?”

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “If we assume the bogeys are at fighting trim with no excess mass, and if we assume a standard Star hull with power twenty percent above normal for a fifty-five hundred ton vessel, what statistical probabilities can you give me for the identity of those bandits based on the registry records for Confederate planets?”

  Sol stuck his coffee cup in the dispenser and absently withdrew it, thankful his hands felt and functioned normally again. The nerves had “worked in.”

  Boaz responded immediately. “Based on the criteria listed, the bogeys are most probably built around a Star Model 26 Type IV hull. That particular design, unfortunately, has been in production for over fifty years, with several thousand sold. The most versatile of the Star design hulls, they’ve been purchased by every major political and commercial group in the Confederacy—with the exception of New Israel and the Brotherhood who, of course, manufacture their own ships. It was a good thought though, Captain.”

  “Thank you, ship.” Sol leaned back, absently reviewing the reactor data coming in through his headset. He made a slight change to the reaction feed, nudging Boaz into a microsecond course change. The memory of Connie silhouetted against ten billion stars in the observation blister kept intruding on his thoughts. Such a beautiful woman. Bright, intelligent, capable, she obsessed him— and he’d never had time for women. Not since Demetria had spaced with him on that first shakedown of Moriah. Only she’d had a chance at command of Gavel and taken it. And after that? When had he found either the time or the inclination? Peg Andaki might have filled that spot, but he’d been in med when she tied up with Bret Muriaki after Maybry’s death.

  “Captain?”

  “Yes?” Sol looked up at the bridge displays.

  “You don’t call me Boaz. I’ve scanned the records and find that most unusual. The effect is disconcerting . . . somewhat like me addressing you simply as ‘human.’ ”

  Did he hear censure in those tones? The index finger on his left hand tapped rhythmically at the instrument-studded armrest console. He shifted, the command chair suddenly confining.

  “I hadn’t given it much thought.”

  The ship didn’t answer immediately. Carrasco’s curiosity stirred despite the tension. Those magnificent n-dimensional chips composing Boaz’s brain thought in terms of nanoseconds. If she hesitated on purpose, then she interacted on a human level. Sophisticated indeed and, he realized, unnerving—with too many implications.

  “Captain, I have many programs with which to conduct many different forms of analyses.” Again the pause, unsettling Sol even more. “It is my conclusion—based on probability, of course—that you’re worried about establishing any close ties which in turn might lead to affection on your part.”

  “Indeed?” The staccato rapping of his fingernails increased. The base of his throat constricted. The command chair squeezed him like some giant fist.

  A pause. “Computers don’t grieve, Captain—humans do.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Your dreams are plagued. I always appear as an obstruction in those subconscious images. Gage still rests heavily on your consciousness.”

  “So do the lives of thirty of my friends.” He forced himself to unclench his hand and slow his breathing.

  “Is that why you’re constantly angry with Arturian, Bryana, and the rest of the crew? You’ve conducted three emergency inspections in the last two days. During that time, you haven’t uttered a single word of praise for any member of your crew. I’ve compared that with tapes of your behavior in previous commands. In each of your ships you were a part of the social network—a positive influence on those under your command. Here, you have withdrawn, isolated yourself. You won’t continue to function effectively once your personal aura wears thin.”

  Sol took a deep breath, crossed his legs, and began chewing on the knuckle of his thumb, gaze drifting past the lights of the bridge and off across space and time. Faces—now long dead—filled the warm companionways, bridges, and wardrooms of those wonderful ships. Briefly, they lived again.

  The image changed. Memory drew him through the wreckage that had once been Moriah, his first command. He saw her there, cold and dark, dying as her circuits went forever silent. A simple square of uncommon mass had tripped the sensors.They’d located the artifact and brought it close to study—hoping it would prove to be evidence of another intelligent civilization; but when the probes began to pry at its secrets, the cube had exploded violently despite Sol’s best precautions. Later, other similar devices had been located—their source finally traced to Arpeggio.

  An amber fog hid Moriah, then swirled away to reveal another terrifying sight.

  Once again, he lived those last desperate moments as he fought Sword free from the Arpeggian trap. Brilliant streaks of plasma shot through the decks as men and women died. He remembered board after board flickering into darkness as Sword struggled to reroute the nerve center of the ship during the fearful jump back to Frontier. Doing so, she performed what amounted to a self-lobotomy to keep her human crew alive.

  Gage’s loss hurt worst—the reason for it incomprehensible. In the blue-red flickering light of the lygee binary had come death. A flat-black vessel had appeared out of nowhere, blasting them where they’d been conducting metal procurement studies on the Tygeean moons. He’d scrambled to save the ship. The haunted stares of the crew burned forever in his brain; he’d known death lurked close for all of them.

  So Sol had steeled himself and done what he could order no one else to do. He’d walked into Engineering next to the failing reactor and held that plasma-severed powerlead together in the last fatal moments. He’d kept the power intact while Happy rerouted and spliced, feeling the radiation, feeling the searing pain as his flesh cooked from his bones. Fortunately the thin mucus tissues of his nose had burned out quickly so he didn’t have to smell the cooking meat that had been his fingers. He’d sacrificed himself to save them all—and Gage lay dead because he wasn’t go
od enough. Those ships, those men and women, all that life and potential wasted. What more could he have done?

  “Why do you think that is, good ship?” Sol’s voice came raggedly as he struggled back to the present.

  “You always got them home, Solomon,” Boaz’s speaker carried a warm conviction. “None of the losses ever resulted from irresponsibility on your part. Every time—”

  “I left the bridge on Gage. Wandered down to see the metallic hydrogen samples Misha had drawn from the moon. Mbazi and—”

  “The Jurisprudence Committee appointed by the Grand Lodge found no reason to bind you over for trial by the Craft. Gage herself didn’t detect the bogey until too late. The attack was unprovoked and was committed by unknown parties beyond the frontier. You proceeded to do the impossible after the odds had been stacked against you. You extricated yourself and got your ship and crew home. You did it by your presence and personality. If you continue with your present attitude, you will lose that precious ability as a commander. In spite of your inspections, Captain, your crew is running at only eighty percent efficiency.”

  “Why do you tell me this?” He stared woodenly, heart sinking in his chest. He should have said no. He should have looked Master Kraal in the eyes and told him flat out that he would never space again.

  The tone in Boaz’s voice startled him. “I think you’re too good to waste, Captain. Further, given the limited data I have at hand, this jump to Star’s Rest—or wherever we’re headed—is of grave significance to all of us. The stakes are much higher than anything we have been privy to.”

  Sol straightened. “Why do you say that?”

  “Subspace transduction messages in complex code are up by five hundred percent. Toron has been skyrocketing on the open market. The major Confederate powers have been recalling their fleets while spacing schedules have been rearranged. Various forms of cargo in high demand include weapons, expeditionary gear, food stuffs, computers, and so forth. In short, domestic indications follow those of a major political upheaval—even to the point of commandeering private spacecraft.”

  “So it’s true the Confederacy could be plunged into warfare?”

  “From the statistical projections within my observation, I would assume that to be the case. Given those parameters, I must make the decision as to whether or not to initiate an action to relieve you of command of this vessel.”

  CHAPTER XII

  An out. Just like that, it lay before him. He could simply say yes to Boaz’s initiation. Everything would be over. He wouldn’t be responsible for ... Responsible? Suddenly he remembered Ngoro’s words.

  No, he’d only have to live with the knowledge that he’d backed out: refused to accept what he knew he morally should.

  And the curious game he played with Connie? Did this balance the assumption of Godhead? And what if Godhead was the true stakes? Could he surrender it to someone like Lietov? To arrogant Arturian?

  He could be out! Free of the burden—free of the ghosts, of the sound of Fil Cerratanos’ fingernails scritching on the hull. One word, and absolution would be his.

  And the stars would be denied him forever.

  And I’d always live with the knowledge I’d walked out. He froze, shocked. In the end, I’d consider myself a coward. And the ghosts would come to cling—to stare eternally with their dead eyes. And Gage, and Sword, and Moriah, would have been for nothing!

  Fear, like a thing alive, scurried in his gut. “W . . . Would you say the situation is irrevocable yet?”

  “No, Captain. From the nature of Speaker Archon’s comments to you, and from statistical monitoring of various government broadcasts, I would estimate that what we are seeing is worst case preliminary activity. To date, government announcements are not preparing the citizenry for hostilities. Social violence is usually preceded by name calling.”

  “And your estimation as to why?”

  “The most logical assumption is that they would avoid the concurrent risks. The single probability which stands out is that various governments have adopted a wait-and-see attitude while at the same time they are operating covertly to affect the outcome of this mission.”

  “Up to the point of ambushing me on the docks,” Sol muttered to himself, fitting in several pieces of the puzzle. He gritted his teeth and sighed. “So I’m in the middle of it again.” The lights marking the two ships in pursuit glared balefully from the monitors.

  “Yes, Captain. I have insufficient data to assume the actual purpose of this voyage. We can, however, accept that the stakes—whatever they may be—are incredibly high. I have monitored Archon discussing it with his daughter. According to them, the Confederacy may very well topple as a result of this mission.”

  Sol rubbed his chin. “Last night, Ngoro and Hitavia’s disturbance didn’t go critical. But I think there’s a lesson there. I want you to monitor all conversations at all times. Tell me immediately if you discover any information which might, through any permutation, affect the safety of this ship, my crew, or the passengers.”

  “Logged, Captain. You realize such action violates breach of privacy regulations. Do you wish to be placed in violation of the Craft’s—”

  Sol smiled wryly at the comm. “Ship, you were the one who told me I always brought them back—dead or alive.”

  “Your voice contains inflections associated with sarcasm. I take it I’m hearing another example of your present sense of insecurity.”

  “What insecurity?” Sol snapped, jerking upright and spilling his coffee.

  “May I ask, Captain—assuming we could roll back the clock, and assuming the variables with the exception of your free will remained unchanged—which of the decisions you made in the past would be made differently now?”

  “Want to start at the beginning? I’ve got a lot of changes to make. I sure wouldn’t have pulled that cube so close to Moriahl” He could hear the bitterness in his voice.

  “So you knew that it was an explosive before you probed it?”

  “Of course not! Read the transcripts of the investigation. You have them on file.”

  “Indeed, Captain, I do.” Boaz used another pause to irritate him. “The fact remains that the Board of Inquiry—composed of command veterans, I might add— concluded that your precautions with the cube exceeded those any of the investigating officers might have taken. They saw no reason to forward the case to the Jurisprudence Committee.”

  Sol laughed. “Ship, that remains a moot argument. The fact was, the thing blew up and killed my ship, my officers, and a third of my crew.”

  “And now you’re running scared?”

  Sol chewed his lip, thinking. “Maybe I am,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “I’m not sure I could stand to lose another ship.”

  “The choice is yours, Captain. You haven’t even probed my capabilities. Your crew is splitting into two factions which are slowly building to confrontation. Your First Officers are questioning your competence as a commander. Two ships are paralleling our course. You’ve heard hints of a saboteur on board . . . and Ambassador Ngoro may, or may not, be able to help find him. The goals and purposes of the diplomats aboard remain undetermined and may plunge the Confederacy into civil war. Don’t you think you had better begin to take charge of the situation?”

  Sol felt that familiar constriction in his chest. His heartbeat accelerated, stimulated by the ship’s criticism. And if she’s right? What if I can’t pull it out in the end? What if I lose this one, too? A throbbing pain, an angina of the soul, twisted through him.

  “Captain,” Boaz said softly. “So long as you call me ship, so long as you keep your distance from the crew, you have not made a commitment to the success of this mission. No matter what, without that, you will lose this command, possibly this ship, and all the lives aboard.”

  “And your recommendation?” His palms had become sweaty, tongue sticking in his throat as he tried to swallow.

  “If you fail to commit yourself, I will invoke Special Section 15.1.3 and propos
e to the junior officers that you be relieved of command for psychological reasons,” Boaz announced in a tone devoid of emotion.

  “And how do I convince you of my commitment?”

  “My name is Boaz- I am a sentient being . . . and I’m convinced I even have a soul, Captain. I suggest you begin to treat me with the modicum of respect any thinking being deserves. I also suggest you get to know your First Officers and start treating your crew like human beings.”

  “I tried that with the First Officers,” Sol protested, feeling himself frantically on the defensive.

  “Then I suggest you listen again.” Boaz replayed the conversations. Sol couldn’t help but hear the authoritative, pompous tone in his voice. “Like that, Captain?”

  “No, ship . . . uh, Boaz, I didn’t know I sounded like that.” He closed his eyes. “I suppose I ought to thank you for this. I had no idea things were so out of control.”

  “Don’t thank me, Captain. Thank Happy. He talked me into this when I would have simply replaced you. I have a great deal of respect for the Chief Engineer. If nothing else, be worthy of his effort.”

  That was why all those personal messages from Happy had been filling his comm monitor. He took a deep breath. Perhaps he should have answered them. Miserable, he looked up at the speakers, nervous, wanting to be repentant—but trying to sustain his battered ego. Only too much lay at stake.

  “I ... I’ve never been lectured by a ship before, Boaz.” He struggled to keep his voice calm. “I’ve never been lectured like that in my life. I believe I owe you an apology. Thank you for your candid evaluation—and your implicit trust. You’ve done what no human could.”