The Artifact

by W. Michael Gear

“Do it, Happy.” Sol grimaced. “Don’t give me that look. I know the regulations. I know you think I’m borderline regarding mental health, too. By the way, thank you for your support.” He paused, screwing up his lips. “Happy, we’ve been through the mill, you and I. If there’s anyone on this ship I can trust, it’s you. I’m not going paranoid on you. Ngoro was murdered.”

  “Blessed Architect! Here ... on ...” Happy sat up straight, broad mouth thinning. “And you don’t know who done it!”

  “No, I don’t. That’s why we have to have the monitors. With all the cloak-and-dagger on board, we can’t let it slip. According to Archon’s orders—”

  “Hold it. What’s he got to do with this?”

  “Kraal said we cooperate with him in any way we can.” Sol grimaced. “I’m cooperating.”

  “Does he know Boaz has the capability of monitoring?” Happy stopped short, slowly shaking his head. “Sol, that’s top secret stuff. How’d he—”

  “He doesn’t.” Relaxing in the chair again, he shrugged slightly, a crooked smile on his lips. “He doesn’t need to know everything. At the same time, I have to!”

  “The regulations—”

  “Damn the regulations!” Sol jumped up. “Think about it. Someone’s been murdered on my ship! Someone killed Norik Ngoro—assassinated him, or whatever you want to call it—and that person might kill somebody else. Worse, he might sabotage Boaz. He might kill us all. I can’t follow my inclination to lock them all up because to do so will interfere with interstellar politics. Now, given all that, what in hell would you do?”

  Happy began chewing his thumb, a sure indication he was thinking hard. Finally he looked up and ran a thick stubby hand over his red face, as if to brush away his doubts. “I guess I’d bug the ship and Hob take the regulations.”

  Sol crossed his arms and nodded. “I guess you’ll do just that, Engineer.” He paused, exhaling slowly. “I... I didn’t want this mission, Happy. It still galls me to have this command, but I have it and I accept that. Now I’m going to make it work. I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep us all alive.”

  Happy’s grin nearly split his face in two. “Now, that’s the Cap I remember!” He stood up, clapping grizzled hands together and rubbing them back and forth in anticipation. “You won’t want these things noticeable, so ... Wait, remember those high pressure microsensors we used core sampling Tygee? We’ve got a couple of crates of the things. Thought they’d come in handy for evacuation vent inspections. I can install them flush into the lighting system. That’ll give Boaz an optic sensor with limited directional control. Remote mikes are no problem. I can make the light panels into acoustical receivers fine enough to hear a mouse fart. From there, she can filter the systems any way she wants.”

  Sol couldn’t help but laugh. “I thought it would appeal to you. How long to install it?”

  Happy rubbed his bristly beard and shrugged, figuring quickly. “Make it a week at most. I’ll have the shop building these things posthaste. Any order of installation in mind?”

  “Start with the lounge, gym, meeting rooms, companionways and quarters of the diplomats. Then expand and cover the wardrooms, galley, and areas peripheral to the diplomatic areas. Last, cover the crew quarters.”

  Happy’s anticipation faded. “Crew quarters?”

  Sol raised apologetic hands. “I can’t rule anyone out, Happy.”

  “But the regulations—”

  “We’ve been through this before,” Sol snapped. “Don’t buck me. We’re threading a different course this time. I’m good at tactics when it comes to ships. No one, not even the crew, is above suspicion. Two people got into patrol uniforms and tried to murder me on the dock. We’re being tracked by two bogeys who won’t answer a standard hailing. From what Archon tells me, they’ll rewrite the constitution when we reach Star’s Rest. Governments might fall and space will never be the same. Ngoro was poisoned not two hundred meters from where we sit, with Boaz monitoring everyone to the best of her abilities. So, tell me, who would you trust?”

  “No one has ever infiltrated a Brotherhood crew before.” He looked up challengingly.

  “No one had ever taken a Brotherhood ship before either,” Sol reminded. “Then Petran Dart lost Enesco to that pirate, Garth. They almost killed Dart . . . and his son barely got Enesco back.”

  Happy nodded. “And the lesson is that we don’t rely on the past, but expect the worst!” His blunt features twisted with disgust. “What’s space coming to?”

  “Welcome to diplomacy and interstellar reality. Besides the incident at the dock, another man tried to get leverage on Archon at Arcturus. The stakes in this are so high anyone is corruptible—even one of the Craft.” Sol grunted and settled into the command chair again. “Boaz will help you.”

  Happy stared off into nothingness for several minutes, lost in his own thoughts as he studied the stars ahead of them on the big bridge monitor. Woodenly, he said, “I wish we were out there—beyond the stars, Cap.”

  Sol’s answering laugh sounded like the wind-blown sands on Bazaar. “I wish we were, too, Happy. I don’t like it any better than you.”

  The big engineer nodded absently, still gazing at the stars. “You know, no one has ever violated the privacy of his crew. It’s a sad day in the Craft.”

  Sol’s face felt like a silicone mask. “I know ... I know. One of the benefits of spacing with Carrasco.”

  Happy stood, stretched, and slapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, well, me and the boys is back of you.”

  “Thanks, Happy, I appreciate that.”

  The hatch slid shut behind the engineer and Solomon Carrasco stared up at the comm. “What next, Boaz?” He couldn’t rid himself of the vision of Norik Ngoro’s body shooting out into the dark.

  “I don’t know, Captain,” the ship responded. “I’m not sure taking such drastic measures as monitoring the crew are necessary.”

  Sol ignored her, not at all sure he could disagree. Instead, he replayed the conversation with Archon in his head. A sudden unease grew. “If I only knew what Archon’s percentage in this is.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Boaz asked, voice betraying curiosity.

  Sol frowned. “Consider. Archon shows up in the Confederacy a couple of months ago. He registers Star’s Rest and all of a sudden, he’s in the middle of intergalactic politics. Doesn’t it strike you as strange that he’s been vested with so much authority when established powers like Sirius, Terra, the Arcturian Protectorate, Last Chance, and other places are playing second fiddle? Archon is calling all the shots.“

  “That permutation has occurred to me,” Boaz confirmed. “At this time, however, I have insufficient data to explain the anomaly.”

  Sol “humphed” under his breath. “So, we assume Archon has some very hefty leverage. Now, if we could just figure out what it is.”

  “Threat, reward, and competition—which is a combination of the two—are the root of most human motivation,” Boaz reminded.

  Sol stared at the screen where the two bogey ships maintained their position, paralleling Boaz’s course. And when would they come to take a hand? Would they come in shooting like the one that attacked Gage? And could he take them out before they damaged Boaz?

  “If only I knew what Archon was holding back!” Sol cried suddenly.

  * * *

  Bryana found Cal Fujiki alone in the officer’s mess and sat down next to him, ordering a thick steak and Cytillian salad. Down here, the whine of turbines and high pressure came mutedly through the bulkheads, a whisper of Boaz’s power.

  The plate slid out of the dispenser before her with a slight curling of steam from the hot, Range-bred meat. She carefully cut off a chunk and chewed it thoughtfully.

  “One thing about having all the mucky mucks aboard, I’ve never eaten like this before.”

  Fujiki nodded, “Yeah, mostly it’s whatever could be quick-frozen, nutritious, and dried to minimum mass for the acceleration. I remember on Gage, first time we spaced for sur
vey, the main meat was dried crab. You know how sick you can get of dried crab? Hey, we fried it, baked it, stewed it, microwaved it, lasered it, hamburgered it, shredded it, gravied it, broiled it, boiled it, you name it.”

  “Suppose it beats reconstituted yeast cake. That’s part of Academy training these days. Five weeks on yeast cake in a two by five meter survival pod while you do course work. The idea is to prove to your subconscious that you can really survive in one of those things indefinitely. Now, me, I wouldn’t want to try.”

  Fujiki smiled wistfully. “Yeah, I guess. Suppose it depends on where you are. Insystem, you’ve got a chance. But if a ship fails in midjump? Wow. The thought of living the rest of my life out there in a pod wouldn’t be worth it. I think you’d do better to crack the hatch and let it all go.”

  They ate silently for a while, Bryana dwelling on the thought of forever in a survival pod—and no hope of rescue.

  “How long have you spaced with Captain Carrasco?” she asked absently.

  Cal shot her a reserved look and said cautiously, “Ever since his first command.”

  She swallowed and studied him. “Does he use things against people? I mean, if you were caught sleeping on watch ... or maybe misfiling a report, what would he do?”

  Fujiki shrugged defensively. “Why do you ask?”

  She fought the flood of panic trying to choke her and forced herself to chew methodically, waving her fork. “Just curious. Outside of what he did to the galley, I haven’t seen him discipline any crew people. How does he handle it?”

  Fujiki turned back to his food, a wry smile on his thin lips. “Cap usually does it himself. I was late getting back from shore leave one time. After he finished reaming me up one side and down the other, I really didn’t need the extra duty he gave me. Felt like the bottom of someone’s foot!”

  She frowned, unable to keep from asking, “You ever hear of him hanging something over somebody; I mean like to blackmail them?”

  Fujiki laughed outright. “No, that’s not the Captain’s style. Solomon Carrasco will usually try to understand what happened and why. If there’s any problem with a subordinate, he’ll generally pop in unannounced, feel out the rest of the men working with the guy, talk to the officer in charge, and get it worked out.”

  “Sounds pretty lax,” Bryana kept her voice carefully neutral as she struggled to understand the game Carrasco was playing with her future. Hanging destruction over her head wouldn’t win him any loyalty. On a sudden impulse she added, “All right, so it was Art. He got in a rumble with one of Gaitano’s men. I was wondering what the Captain will do.”

  Fujiki grinned devilishly, dark eyes glittering. “Relax! I’ve been working with the First Officer. He’s a little slow—but he’s got potential as far as self-defense. Cap was slightly irritated by the whole thing, but if he was upset with Arturian he’d have busted him on the spot.”

  “But he got in a fight! Regulations—”

  “Regulations are fine,” Fujiki told her smugly, “so long as you’re insystem.” He leaned forward on his elbows and gave her an evaluative inspection. “Listen. I’ve served with Solomon Carrasco when I knew I was going to die the next minute . . . and I’ve stood—like this morning—and watched my wife, my friends, and even some enemies blown out the hatch. But we made it home. Made it because Cap wouldn’t admit we were beaten.”

  He saw her misgiving and waved his hands. “Think back to what we were saying about the survival pod. In a sense, Boaz is just a big survival pod. Same system, right? A self-contained environment. The big difference is that you’re here with a lot of other people inside the same graphite hull. When you asked about Sol hanging something over someone’s head . . . well, he wouldn’t because he’s a deep space man. He’s been out there. What we call ‘behind the nebula’—and believe me, there’re dead spots out there where subspace can’t be picked up. That’s a spooky, isolated feeling that goes way down to your guts. In deep space, you need everyone pulling together. I can guarantee you, if Cap played trite little games to get a hold on his crew . . . we’d have been dead clear back when that Arpeggian mine tagged Moriah.”

  “But the regula—”

  “Are fine so long as you don’t face a crisis,” Fujiki added firmly. “Cap will throw the book away if his gut tells him there’s a better way to do things. Sure, Art should have been busted. If Cap had thought Art would have been better for a bust—he’d have done it. Look, I don’t know what’s going on inside Solomon Carrasco’s head. All I know is that he takes everyone in his command seriously and expects as much from them as he gives. Five will get you ten, Art isn’t in another idiotic fight with someone like Bret—and he won’t have a black mark on his record for a silly little mistake either. Not, that is, if Cap thinks he’s got potential.”

  She nodded as Fujiki got to his feet and left. Biting her lip, she stared at the wall in front of her and tried to make sense of it all.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Ships—artifacts of intelligence—appeared. One by one they popped through the light jump, inefficiently powered by the stasis fields of their shields. Such clumsy navigation. Didn’t they understand . . . But no, these, too, carried the bipedal animals. Carefully, she searched, inspecting the vessels for a rival, finding nothing to indicate artificial intelligence beyond primitive digital machines relying on N-dimensional gallium arsenide superconductors. The hulls themselves proved to be pitifully primitive, a mixture of graphite fibers embedded in foam steel alloy. Didn’t they understand atomic string manipulation?

  One by one, the ships shed mass/velocity through barbaric matter-antimatter reaction. Evidently, the animals hadn’t cracked the secret of something as simple as inertialess drive.

  Five of the frail vessels popped in to bumble around for several days attempting to locate each other. Once they’d done so, and determined their position, they reformed. On a circuitous course, they veered off to loop around the system, ludicrously attempting to hide their deceleration and mass. She observed, projecting they would establish a solar synchronous orbit opposite the planet. And their purpose? It fell within the realm of possibility that the animals weren’t entirely rational. Or perhaps they served another Master?

  Her thoughts twisted insanely. Such bumbling creatures! Leading them to destroy themselves would be so simple, so clean and neat. Only she would toy with them for a while first. A greater satisfaction could be gained if she allowed them to suffer before she crushed them.

  * * *

  She’d set the gaming booth on solo. A training device, Carrasco had told her—just like the ones in the Academy she’d never attended. This machine, however, had been adapted for the benefit of the diplomats. The holo could be set for three-dimensional tank display to show ships and planets, or for a bridge recreation which Constance now used. For Connie, the device had become a balm to the soul from the first moment she sat in one of the command chairs and donned the headset. For those brief moments, she flew free in an imaginary reality, enjoying her one true passion—the feel of a ship.

  When she sat in the command chair, the lounge behind was forgotten. Grav plates suspended around the command chair recreated the sensations of spaceflight. The resultant g forces pulled her this way and that in the contouring grip of the chair as she maneuvered.

  On the screen before her, asteroids tumbled and rolled. Tension—like a palpable hand—squeezed her into the seat. Somewhere ahead a ten trillion ton black hole hid amid the swirling debris. Tidal effects powered the chaos of rock. She had only minutes to cross the wheeling asteroid belt, avoid the singularity, and find her port on the other side.

  Sweat beaded on her forehead as she tensed, blasting reaction, reading the stats through the headset. She applied lateral thrust, slamming her vessel sideways under a six g vector change to sideslip a cartwheeling ball of rock. Past, she accelerated cautiously under ten gs.

  There, ahead, an asteroid looped mysteriously, bending its trajectory for no discernible reason. The singularit
y! She worked the controls, barely avoiding collision with a streaking chunk of rock. The ship responded sluggishly.

  Now what? She jacked the throttles wide open, watching the stasis fields warp as she poured more antimatter into the reaction containment. G tore at her, the command chair squeaking under her with the strain as she shot forward. What about the tides? How much effect would they have on her juddering ship?

  Connie—heedless of the danger of collision—threw the helm over, battling against the increasing gravity. Light bent eerily as her ship fought. A blaring klaxon sounded as she frantically searched the monitors. There, an angular chondritic asteroid curved in the pull of the singularity. Connie broke right, the struggling ship heeling over so slowly. Fingers flying, she accessed targeting. Numbers jammed in her mind as she stumbled through the calculations, settling her guns, firing at the last minute to pulverize the rock. With the protective shields warped by tides, fragments punctured her hull; decompression warnings flashed on the monitor. The proximity klaxon sounded again.

  The holo went dead.

  She sat for a second, stunned, frozen in that last moment of horror. As the silence around her deepened, reality reaffirmed itself and she sagged in the command chair, eyes closed, trying to catch her breath. Blood rushed through charged veins as she swallowed dryly.

  She shook her head, whispering, “Dearest God.”

  “Admirable.” Jordan’s voice startled her.

  Connie reached up and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. “Didn’t see the one that got me. I missed spotting the singularity until too late. I’m not sure I could’ve escaped as it was.” She exhaled, wrung out. “Star spit, this thing is too real.”

  “But you handle it most adroitly. They tell me the effect is like a real ship.”

  “Yeah, wow! And to think I would’ve just killed myself. Sobering indeed.” She looked over, adrenaline fading as her heart slowed. Jordan slouched against the bulkhead, a strange excitement in his eyes. This time he wore a powder blue jacket with over-padded shoulders and a high collar. His hair had been arranged in a curl like a diadem over his forehead. A slight smile of admiration curled his lips.