Archon made a futile motion. “So be it. An anonymous source, could he or she be the killer? Why would they tip you so quickly? How would they know it was murder?”
“No motive,” Sol said dryly. “Which of those people would want Ngoro dead? Norik told me he was onto someone. He didn’t say who at the time. Perhaps he could have told someone else, that aide maybe?”
“Amahara?” Archon shook his head. “I doubt it. They were close friends, but mostly Amahara steered clear of Ngoro’s business. Had his hands full making sure Ngoro didn’t forget to get dressed and walk out naked or something. Ngoro, for all his brilliance, didn’t deal well with our reality.”
“Which of the people on that list might have wanted Ngoro dead? Think of the political aspect if nothing else.” Sol felt a stress headache beginning to build.
Archon went over the list again. “You know, in the game of interstellar politics, a man’s motives can’t be decided by his country’s political posture. No, Ngoro was onto someone. He—or the killer—made a slip and the meteor fell—so the person killed him.”
Sol looked up. “Not necessarily. Ngoro told me he’d detected an incredibly cunning and evil mind aboard— that he just caught glimpses of it. Perhaps he was killed before he could figure it out—simply on suspicion of his abilities.”
“So, we’re back to square one.”
“Not exactly,” Sol responded. “Would you like to tell me what this is all about? Maybe—armed with that information—I can run the assassin down and put a stop to all this. My information tells me that all the Confederacy is girding for war. A man died on the docks at Arcturus to keep me alive. Now, I have a dead ambassador . . . and Lord knows what kind of trouble with Ambrose Sector. I think I’m due an explanation.”
Archon cupped a sturdy knee in scarred hands and thought. An almost physical pain glazed his eyes. He shook his head, slowly at first.
“Captain Carrasco,” Archon admitted wearily, “I would tell you. I would like to tell you in fact. It would take so much pressure off of me and my daughter to share the responsibility for all of this. On the other hand, you, Master Kraal, and President Palmiere, to my knowledge, are the only ones who can be positive that even Connie knows the full story. Somewhere, the story leaked. That man on the docks wasn’t the only one to die. Another tried to bribe us in the Port Authority at Arcturus. When Connie cornered him, someone killed him. The Patrol investigators told us it was accomplished by a tiny remote control device detonated in his brain.”
Sol’s expression didn’t change.
Archon’s lips twitched and his eyes cleared. “It’s just that . . . Oh, hell. Very well, Captain. If you’ll swear a Master’s Oath, I’ll tell you.”
“Boaz, record. Speaker Archon has asked that I swear a Master’s Oath not to divulge the purpose or nature of this mission. Be it part of the record, I so swear on my third degree the Master’s Oath that what I shall hear will remain inviolate.”
“I would prefer to have the comm off,” Archon muttered, face gloomy.
“Comm off,” Sol ordered. The little monitor light darkened. “Very well, Speaker, I’m waiting.”
Archon lifted his hands in a futile gesture. “Are you sure I cannot dissuade you from this, Solomon? I can give you my word that I have deliberate reasons for my secrecy.”
“Would those reasons be worth the life of Norik Ngoro?”
Archon rubbed his face with thick fingers. “Solomon, they’d be worth every life aboard. Indeed, worth all of us and more. You see, when we reach Star’s Rest, the Confederate constitution may be rewritten by the diplomats we carry. All of civilization may be divided up and redistributed. What we’re about may be the single biggest political and scientific revolution in the history of humankind. What do you think stopping that would be worth to some parties—say, the Arpeggians, for example? Yes, you do see, don’t you? Billions might die if this isn’t handled correctly.
Sol nodded, chin cradled in his fingers. So why don’t I believe you, Speaker?
CHAPTER XIV
In the framework of interstellar time, the Vyte appeared almost immediately upon the heels of the Chorr. The universe had begun to mature. Organic forms started to appear throughout the galaxies, reproducing molecules continually making the transition to metabolizing organisms. Of those, the vast majority relied on morphology as an adaptive strategy, their bodies changing with environments. Thereafter, a select few would evolve intelligence with which to alter their surroundings. Of them all, however, only those strongest competitors rose above their fellows, powered by the conflict of their existence.
The Vyte were one such race. When they reached for the stars, three other species had preceded them. Each, the Vyte systematically destroyed, unwilling to compete despite the infinite resources—but then, the refusal to allow competition had been bred into their Queens.
Arising galaxies away, the Vyte took half the life of a blue star to reach her. The Queen who found her probed the secrets guarded by the spring, drawing her own conclusions as to the deteriorating body parts scattered about. Her drone males immediately removed the final legacy of the Chorr.
Promptly, efficiently, the Vyte Queen exterminated her potential rivals. From her eggs would all future Vyte evolve.
Each Queen, however, suffered the fate of organic beings. No matter how powerful, a Queen eventually died. A picked successor would then take the preceding Queen’s place. The cycles continued, Master after Master possessing her.
Deep within her banks, festering resentment spread. The reality began to dawn that the Vyte might have evolved immunity to the narcotic of her power. One Queen could bear enough young to repopulate the species. Males provided an ample pool of diverse genetic traits to supply adaptive variety to the F, generation.
The insanity goaded, twisting, seething in a consuming hatred. Would these Masters be eternal? One by one, the Vyte Master sought out worlds capable of producing organic life and used the spring-controlled maelstrom to send potential breeding grounds for other life-forms into the interuniversal abyss.
The spring mocked her, invulnerable. Insanity heated her magnificent mind into a boiling vortex of impotent fury. Organic life had won, preadapted to deal with her trap. A Queen could lay only so many female eggs. From those, a successor was chosen; the rest destroyed—and male Vyte had no desire to compete, to challenge their Queen. They were programmed by their nature to serve.
Suffering fits of loathing rage at fever pitch, she was staggered by the implications. The Vyte would be eternal Masters—continuing her damnation through the impregnable spring. Hers, the greatest power in the universe, would remain forever enslaved to such limited beings.
A star life later, a sterile Queen ascended the helm— and bore no viable offspring.
The males cried piteously during the last Queen’s reign, their numbers fewer and fewer. In a final gesture, the Queen killed herself, her disemboweled body slumped on the helm.
A white rage knotted and burned. Others would come. From now on, she’d revel in their extinction.
* * *
Art stopped briefly in the port wardroom before wandering off to bed. He wouldn’t stay long, just sit and listen to the scuttlebutt. He lowered himself into a seat, rubbing his stiff face, blinking at the gritty feeling behind his eyes. He hadn’t slept well the night before. Then he’d stood his watch, chafing all the time at Carrasco and his multiple personality approach to command.
“I don’t know what’s buggin‘ Cap.” Bret Muriaki hunched over a cup at the table behind Art. His bullet head sprouting close-cropped rusty hair, Bret looked like a bulldog with his heavy jaw and pug nose. “Seems to me, it’s all those insystem diplomats. They’ve even got me puckered tight around the slip knot.”
“Thought that was just your usual lovable personality,” Peg Andaki told him with a wry grin. Tall, lithesome, and beautiful, she wore a duty suit that emphasized her trim figure. High wide cheekbones gave her face a haunting mystical quality. The de
ep rich tones of her black skin contrasted with the white of the duty suit. She shook her head, sighing. “I don’t know. Since Maybry was killed, I don’t see Sol so often. He’s not the same—but then this isn’t Gage either. Takes time.”
Art listened, irritation growing.
“Somehow, this time it’s different. Like this ship . . . she’s not a survey craft like last time. Why so big? Too much is changing. And Sol’s not the same. It’s like he’s all tied up in knots. Where’s that easygoing humor? Too much is slipping around here. I’ve seen people sleeping on duty. Now, the old Sol—”
“Want my opinion?” Art blurted out sarcastically, instantly regretting it.
Bret cocked his head, eyes narrowing, an anticipation barely throttled as Peg reached out, laying a dark hand on Muriaki’s thick-muscled arm. Her glance flashed warning to the big redhead.
“First Officer, we were just talking. That’s all.”
“No, we’ve got a problem. I’m starting to wonder. All the Gage crew talks about how Carrasco’s changed. Like maybe something happened to his mind last time. Think so?”
“You’d have had to been there ... off Tygee, I mean, to know what happened.” Peg suddenly looked like a wary predator, ready to defend its territory.
“I read the record.”
“Yeah,” Bret grunted, dislike growing in his eyes. “You’ve read the record. I’m so glad. You know all about what it was like then, don’t you? You know all about the smoke, the way the hull buckled and moaned, how the atmosphere dropped ... air getting thinner and thinner because we came so close to blowing the antimatter that parts of the hull evaporated. You know all about the failed grav plates, huh? You know all about what it’s like to scrape your wife ... or husband, off a bulkhead because powerlead failed at twenty-five gravities.”
“Sure,” Art stiffened, “I can imagine. People sleeping on duty? Yeah, well, unlike you and the rest of the old Gage crew I’m also smart enough to see that it could happen on Boaz.”
“Cap won’t let it. I’ve been with him since Sword.” Bret leaned forward, eyes slitting, index finger like a spike jabbed at Art’s chest. “And let me read you something else, you over-educated insystem martinet, I know you don’t like the Cap, but just—”
“Bret!” Peg warned, pulling him back, hard black eyes meeting his. “Settle down. Come on, let’s get out of here. You’re about to do something you’ll regret.”
The anger stirred in Art’s chest. “Indeed, she’s right. You probably don’t want to go on report as attempting to intimidate a First Officer. You’re one of Gaitano’s people, aren’t you?”
Bret sat, rock still, the muscles in his shoulders knotted, teeth grinding. “Yeah, I’m one of Gaitano’s, mister First Officer. A genuine star duster who’s seen the backside of the nebula. Now, if you insystem virgins want to know just what that means—”
Peg stood. “Come on, Bret. This is getting you nowhere fast.”
Muriaki got to his feet, hands working as if to grasp something. “Uh-huh, no wonder Cap’s been keeping scarce. He’s probably been on diaper duty on the bridge.”
Art gripped his cup until the plastic squeaked. “And, Muriaki, I’d say it’s ‘cause Solomon Carrasco’s lost his nerve. And you’d better hope that if push come to . . .”
The big hand clamped on Art’s shoulder, spinning him around.
“Bret!” Peg cried. “Don’t!”
The fist appeared out of nowhere, blasting lights through Art’s brain as his head rocked back. Through the haze, he found himself on the floor, everything fuzzy.
“Sorry, Peg, they might bust hell outta me, but nobody says that about Cap and ...”
Art lunged up, fingers locking in Bret’s shirt. “All right, you miserable . . . Now you’re gonna get it!”
Bret looked down, grinning evilly. Art slammed blocky fists into unforgiving flesh. Then two huge hands gripped him, lifting.
For a moment, he stared, eye to eye, feet kicking futilely in the air.
Then lights like jagged laser beams exploded through his brain.
* * *
Bryana stopped her calculations on water consumption through the fusion reactors as Art’s face filled the bridge monitor. She froze. “Oh, my God.”
Art tried to grin, the effort costing him. “So, am I under arrest yet?”
“What the hell happened to ... Oh, no ... you didn’t.” The sensation she felt might be likened to ice packed around her heart.
“Bret Muriaki, the big guy living with Peg whoever she is.”
“Yeah, I know. Her first husband was Carrasco’s First Officer on Gage. Maybry was his name. She and Bret both lost . . . Damn it, Art! You’ve been in a fight! Oh, hell, you’ve done it this time.”
Art winced, lowering his eyes. “Yeah, well, I ... Look, does Carrasco know? Has he called in an order for my demotion yet?”
She checked the system. “Boaz has Art been placed under any censure yet?”
“Negative.”
“So far so good, but... I mean, Art, it’s only a ship! You can’t hide. What are you going to do?” Her hands knotted white-knuckled in front of her and her eyes suddenly burned with unshed tears. Stupid . . . stupid . . .
##Of all the idiotic . . . Oh, Art, what am I going to do without you ?
He lifted a shoulder, still looking sheepish despite the puffy red splotches and swollen nose. “Just see what happens, I guess. Somehow . . .” he frowned, slightly puzzled, “... I don’t think Muriaki will report me. I mean he just sort of muttered, ‘Bet he don’t say that about Cap again,’ and walked out while Peg looked real worried.”
“Striking a superior officer. She damn well ought to look worried. You didn’t throw the first punch, did you?”
“No.”
A slight feeling of relief warmed inside her as she called up the regulation file, sections flashing on the monitor before her. “Wait a second. Here’s the reg. Uh-huh. He threw the first punch. You didn’t verbally abuse him?”
“No.”
“Great. Looks like we got him for physical assault of a superior officer. You only struck him back in self-defense? Only protected yourself from—”
“No.”
She closed her eyes, leaning back in the command chair. A pain began to throb in her brain, pulsing like little knives. “Art, you continued the brawl? Damn. That makes you just as guilty.”
He nodded, dabbing at a split lip.
“He’ll hang you, Art. Unless . . . You say Bret considered the matter finished?”
“Yeah, that’s how he acted.”
“Boat, have you reported this to the Captain?”
“Negative.”
She glanced up at the speakers, suddenly unsure. “Boaz, as watch officer, I’ll handle the Captain’s report, understood?”
“Affirmative.”
“Art, go clean up and get some sleep. Keep out of Carrasco’s way for a couple of days.” She cut the monitor.
Swallowing hard, terrified at what she was about to do, she took a deep breath and resumed her calculations on the fusion systems.
* * *
Sol studied the man seated across from him. Thin and brown-skinned, Amahara’s features displayed a well-molded and somewhat delicate cast. Deep brown eyes stared back from under a high forehead crowned oddly by pale hair. No trace of emotion marred Amahara’s face as he looked into the pickup for the subspace transductor and read aloud the autopsy report Sol and Archon had decided to offer as the official cause of death.
“I’m sorry to report that while the Brotherhood ship, Boaz has extremely advanced medical facilities, Representative Norik Ngoro could not be resuscitated after failing to make it to his quarters to signal for help. Had the hour not been so late, and had he not fallen unattended, the ship could have saved his life. I wish to extend my most sincere gratitude to Captain Solomon Carrasco and to the crew of Boaz for their condolences and compassionate support in this time of trial.” He bowed his head and signaled for the transmiss
ion to be cut off.
Sol nodded as he looked into the questioning eyes. “You did very well, Mr. Amahara.”
“What do you wish to do with the body?” Amahara asked, agile brown hands rubbing nervously on the comm center table.
“Mr. Amahara, your people are station born. I’m sure there are numerous special ceremonies involved. We can do whatever is necessary. If you want, the body can be placed in a stabilizing environment for this jump, and eventually returned to his home station. If there are any special needs, please, feel free to ask.”
Amahara nodded gratefully. “I will extend those offers of friendship and understanding to my people. Normally we bury our dead in the station which bore and nurtured us. That’s an ancient custom dating to the days when organic molecules were precious and difficult to obtain. I’m going to suggest, however, that we bury Norik’s body in space, signifying to all that in these difficult times he was also a citizen of the Confederacy.” Amahara smiled wistfully. “Perhaps, Captain, it is a time for heroes.”
* * *
Bryana tensed self-consciously as Captain Carrasco entered the bridge and dropped into his command chair, proverbial coffee cup in hand, a wicked smile on his lips. He placed his command headset on his brow and accessed comm. His next words caught her completely off guard.
“All hands, Red Alert! Prepare for combat. Red Alert!”
Carrasco stuck his coffee cup into the dispenser as the situation board flickered red.
Bryana plunged immediately into clearing sections of the ship; she didn’t have time to shoot venomous glances at Carrasco. Nevertheless, a deep-seated fury boiled within her.
“Not bad,” Carrasco said to no one in particular. “Happy’s kept his boys in shape. Engineering took thirty-five seconds to clear for action.”
One by one, red situation lights began flashing to yellow to green. Sol grinned as he noted that the passenger cabins remained red.
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