The Artifact

by W. Michael Gear

  “You know, Constance, I’m surprised by your proficiency at the controls. I wasn’t sure which to be more fascinated with, the flying rock in the holo or the expression on your face.”

  She laughed softly, pulling a strand of long red hair back from where it clung to her moist cheek. “I’d say the tank would win hands down. I must have looked like an ion mechanic in an overload.”

  “Perhaps you underestimate yourself.” He hesitated, eyes meeting hers. “Come, let me offer you the best of my hospitality. We really haven’t had a chance to talk yet, and, considering the coming days, I’d like to establish more than just formal communications between his Majesty and Star’s Rest.”

  Words of acceptance stopped cold. I don’t really like him. On the other hand, he speaks for his king. But the man reminds me of a Cytillian . . . Do it! He may be a maggot in the end, but he’s a powerful maggot you can’t afford to alienate.

  She took a deep breath, hitting the quick release on the chair to stand on rubbery legs. “I suppose I could spare a moment.” Cover your ass, kid. “Um ... I do have to meet my father in half an hour to discuss some tariff problems.”

  He smiled pleasantly, dimples forming in his cheeks. “I’m sure that will be sufficient for openers. My cabin?”

  She nodded.

  “So tell me,” Jordan asked as they walked. “Where did you learn to pilot a ship? Academy?”

  She shook her head, fingering the long Cielan lace of her turquoise pantsuit. “Sucked it up from the deck plates, as my father would say.” She smiled absently. “I can remember calculating thrust-mass ratios at the age of five. Then, as I got older, I just sort of filled in for this position and that. Everything from cleaning deck plates and converter tubes to impulsion pump maintenance to navcomm programming. Uncle Claude—excuse me, Captain Mason—I guess I ought to call him that now. Dignified, you see? Well, he helped, answered questions, taught me all about my father’s ship, Dancer. ”

  She cast a speculative look at him. “And you? Have you piloted?”

  He smiled plastically as he palmed his hatch and gestured her in. “Royalty has fleets to provide that service. It isn’t considered seemly for a member of the Royal family in line for the throne to engage in such trivialities. But welcome to my temporary fief. Not quite the capitol at Rega, I’m afraid, but in our present circumstances I suppose it will have to do.”

  Connie looked around. “I’m impressed. How’d you get a place bigger than my quarters?”

  Fan walked across the room to a dispenser. “Oh, I threw quite a fit just to get this. They even sent in techs to place a doorway through there and into another room.”

  Connie cocked her head. “They made structural modifications because you ... I suppose you know just how significant that is?”

  An impish grin curled mobile lips as he offered a bulb of brandy. “Finest vintage from New Maine’s Targa region,” he explained; then he waved at the room. “Of course it’s significant. I’m a member of the Royal household. Their treatment of me is a reflection of their treatment of his Majesty. I’m not totally unreasonable, I understand the restrictions the officers of this ship are under. They have to try and placate everyone. I’m not insensitive; I’ve adapted to this rat hole, after all.”

  He chuckled, amused. “Besides, that silly First Officer, Bryana, asked if I’d cease to annoy her if she doubled my space. However, were this vessel of the New Maine fleet I’d command twice the room.“

  She sipped the liquor, finding it exceptional, and studied him, trying to conceive of a society that would sacrifice vital space to support a martinet. Strands of thought tried unsuccessfully to weave into a rubric that might accomodate his flatulent worldview—and failed.

  But then, what drove him to seek her company? “You mentioned something about relationships?”

  He chuckled, warm amusement in his eyes. “Indeed, but perhaps we should discuss New Maine and Star’s Rest first?”

  She straightened. “Oddly enough, Earl, that’s exactly what I meant.”

  He lifted a patrician eyebrow as he fingered his glass. “Of course.” The politician’s smile remodeled his mouth. “New Maine is always open to extending her interests. We could be a very powerful ally. His Majesty’s deepest regret is that you went to the Brotherhood first. We would have rewarded you most admirably for—”

  “I beg your pardon?” Connie stiffened, a coolness in her manner.

  Fan smiled formally. “You don’t seriously expect me to buy this charade your father is talking about, do you? A constitutional convention? Seriously, couldn’t you think of anything more plausible? A toron find perhaps? A minerals procurement or industrial development financial scheme?”

  She took a deep breath and paced the room. “Sorry to burst your bubble. I’m afraid the intricacies of Confederate politics ...” She caught the hardening of his expression. “You do understand the circumlocutory nature of interstellar politics, don’t you? The importance of—”

  “And if you expect me, of all people, to believe . . . I ... very well.” He smiled graciously, eyes narrowing slightly as he ran a pale-skinned hand over his sandy hair. “We’ll consider that subject closed for the moment.”

  “I think that would be prudent.” She studied him pensively over her glass, annoyed by the knowing superiority on his face. He glanced up and down her body, eyes lingering on the swell of her breasts—a predator sizing up his opposition.

  He seemed to inflate at the challenge in her words.

  Now what do I do? He knows. Or at least suspects so strongly, he ‘II have himself convinced before long. Damn it, is this another of Palmiere ’s leaks ? Connie paced the room, looking at the various trinkets. She stopped before a plexicase resplendent with ribbons and medals. Misdirect. Defuse the situation. “And these are?”

  “Honoraria of service.” He stepped close beside her, invading her personal space and pointing to the decorations as he talked. “That’s the Majestic Legion Award. I received that for my role in negotiating the Sirian Reaches agreement. The ribbon beside it is the Parade of Honor for services in the intelligence branch.” He smiled facilely. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t elaborate? The others are minor sorts of the things. Cadre of Merit, Gallantry Under Fire, and the fluorescent orange is for being wounded in the course of military action.”

  “Funny,” she mused, backing up a step to escape, “I never thought of you as a military man.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t much. Just some local discontents in the backcountry. You know how it is, a few are always agitating—like the Gulagis. Someone had to put them in their place. I was given the honor of serving his Highness in that moment of trial. A reassurance to the common soldiers that the Royal family supported them.”

  He’d followed her, pressing close behind. “Connie, I—"

  “Well, thank you for your hospitality. I’m afraid I must get back. Father and I have those reports to review.”

  “Constance?” A hand settled on her shoulder.

  She turned, controlling herself, trying to read his expression. A gleam of excitement sparked in him as he stood before her, head back, raptorian eyes tracing her features. A hand half lifted, as if to stroke her face . . . and stopped at the narrowing of her eyes.

  “You know, you’re a very beautiful woman.”

  “Thank you. Earl, I have to—”

  “I would prefer to be called Fan, by you.” A slight smile hovered at the edge of his lips.

  She waited, heart thudding in her breast. There didn’t seem to be any give to him. “Fan, I’ve got a meeting in minutes.”

  “You know, you’ve come to fascinate me. You’re so unlike any other woman I’ve ever met. Strong, capable, and challenging. You have balance and poise and . . . and at the same time there’s a primal immediacy to you.”

  Connie hesitated, locked in a struggle between laughing in his face and disbelief. “Thank you for your comments. Now, if you’ll—”

  “Connie,” he soothed, “I don�
�t think you take me seriously.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh, I’ve made a study of you already. Watching at a distance, learning you. Indeed, actually coming to respect you for your capabilities.”

  “Then you’ll know that I don’t take missing appointments lightly.” She coolly reached up and removed his fingers, placing the still full brandy on the counter. She took two paces toward the door before a firm hand caught her arm.

  Verging on whirling and striking out, she froze in his grip, aware of the possibilities. He hadn’t really been more than a nuisance . . .yet.

  “Constance,” he whispered, fingers tightening. “I’m a most powerful man. Before us both lie opportunities which must be seized and grappled with. I don’t mean to rush you, but together . . . you and I could accomplish great things.”

  As quickly, he released her, stepping back, a mocking smile on his fine lips. His eyes danced with challenge, accenting his perfect features. “Just think about it, Connie. I’m in no hurry for your answer, but consider all things in perspective. You’re worthy of Royalty—of me.”

  He reached to palm the hatch, the portal sliding soundlessly into the wall.

  She nodded slowly, off balance, irritated and confused. “I’ll give your offer a great deal of thought.” Struggling to keep her rising temper in check she added coolly, “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  He smiled thinly, bowing slightly from the waist. “In your thoughts, keep in mind that I’m not an ally to be snubbed. And I don’t offer myself to just anyone.”

  On charged legs, she raced down the lighted freedom of the hall, Tayash’s haunting remarks ringing in her ears. The more she thought of Jordan, anger rose to red rage. Worst of all, he believed in his own desirability! Of course, Royalty on New Maine took what—and who— they wanted, when they wanted.

  “Oughta have kicked his balls off!” she growled through gritted teeth.

  “Sure, and how are you going to handle him from now on?” Fists clenched as she stormed to her room, she repeated under her breath, “Damn men! Damn them all. Damn! Damn!”

  * * *

  “RED ALERT! All personnel to stations! This is not a drill!”

  Bryana tumbled out of bed, groping for her uniform as the lights flashed on, blinding. Frantically, she tore long black hair out of her eyes as she struggled into her combat armor, grabbing for the helmet with slippery fingers.

  She checked the seals as she pounded down the corridor. While she ran, she tightened the fasteners along the zip-seal and clipped the inflatable helmet to the suit collar. She slapped the bridge hatch, absently checking her time. Not bad, she’d only spent a minute and five seconds from sleep to bridge.

  Barely noticing Art’s white-faced stare, she flopped into her seat, snapping the restraints as the chair conformed to the curves of her body. The situation board had already begun to flicker over to green. Only one or two reds left—the diplomats, of course. The rest of the ship seemed to have shaped up.

  “Status?” she called as Art relinquished his control in order to suit up.

  “Bogeys . . . closing,” he gasped, fumbling to pull his suit on. Carrasco bolted through the door, already armored for vacuum, a tight look pinching his features. He vaulted into his command chair, fastened the headset on his skull, and stared grimly at the main monitor. “Just like Tygee . . . Damn!”

  Tygee? Where Carrasco lost Gage? Bryana’s heart almost stopped dead in her chest. Not . . . another . . . drill? “Oh, my God!”

  Carrasco’s orders jolted her from the paralysis that glued her horrified gaze on the two bogeys. “Targeting Doppler is one one five point seven eight by one six point three six two. Triangulate!”

  Bryana swallowed at the sticking dry ness in her mouth. She fumbled access to the targeting comm. After two tries, she locked the scanners on the closing craft. Despite years of practice, proficiency seemed to have vanished in muffled commands, forgotten sequences, and disbelief.

  Art had slipped back into his chair, allowing her to relinquish engineering.

  Bryana bit her lip, forcing herself to pound out the rote of the fire control, hearing Cal Fujiki’s voice chattering ready stats in her ear. After an eternity, targeting locked weapons on the diverging bogeys. Damn it, where’d they managed to get acceleration like that? They had to be doing almost forty gs. How could—

  “Bryana? Status?” Carrasco demanded coolly.

  “We . . . Combat ready, sir.”

  She forgot everything else, concentrating on her boards, hearing Fujiki haranguing his men over power routing to the main guns. His crews would keep the main batteries functioning, feeding heavy elements, attending to overheating and the other maintenance. She had to target, compute the actual location where light-fast particles would intercept the path of the accelerating bogeys through the bending and warping of space-time around Boaz’s high velocity distortion.

  “Blaster fire!” Art yipped hysterically. “Why are they shooting? Why? I ...”

  “Steady, First Officer,” Carrasco interjected calmly.

  Bryana glanced up at the main monitor, dumbfounded, seeing violet lances streaking around them. Awed, she stared, mouth open, pulse racing, as Boaz’s shields flared brilliantly.

  “Return fire, First Officer Bryana.”

  Her command-lock override flickered deadly green. Still she stared, unable to comprehend.

  “First Officer? I ordered you to return fire,” Carrasco reminded firmly. “Or do you want us all to go up like molten phosphorus? I order you to return fire!”

  Panicked, she tore her eyes away and okayed the information Boaz provided. Trembling, she pressed the firing stud that unleashed Boaz’s powerful guns. The starboard batteries responded perfectly, lances of violet lacing the blackness, seeking the closing bandits. Again and again, she triggered port side with no reaction.

  “Blast! What’s wrong? Fujiki? We don’t have port batteries! What the hell’s wrong down there?” Above her the monitors rippled color as the shields absorbed enemy fire. The command chair shivered ominously.

  “Damage Control!” Art bellowed. “We’re holed in decks seven and nine! Decompression in sections alpha, bravo, richard, and savage!”

  “Easy, First Officer,” Carrasco’s calming voice soothed. “Keep your head, Art. The only way to survive is to think.”

  “Weapons? Damn it, Cal, where are you?” Then she realized she hadn’t opened a channel. “Fujiki? I don’t have port guns!”

  “We’re on it. Got a breach down here. Lost some people, but we’re splicing powerlead.”

  Lost some . . . Her soul ached. Who? Who’d died? Blown out into hellfire ... or cooked in their very suits? Because she hadn’t returned fire? Hadn’t acted quickly enough?

  “Easy, people, keep your heads,” Carrasco prompted. “We’ll get out of this yet.”

  Bryana swallowed hard, barely aware of the tears streaking her face as she bent over the boards, reading the data as she refined the starboard guns. G tried to yank her in two as Boaz shot reaction against inertia to avoid enemy fire. The grav plates strained to compensate. Smoke began boiling out of the atmosphere ducts. Bryana’s suit crackled as the bridge depressurized around her. Breached?

  Again and again Boaz pitched under Carrasco’s hand as she fought to avoid the deadly blaster bolts raking her. Numbly, Bryana sought to keep the target centered during the pitching and weaving. She fired again, seeing violent purple lance the darkness—another clean miss.

  “What’s wrong? What?” She shot again. Missed. “I .can’t even come close? Damn it! FujikiV

  “Easy, First Officer. Take your time, settle down. Look for a pattern,” Carrasco warned as violent deceleration tried to pitch Bryana face forward out of her seat.

  Pattern? She shot again, watching the bolts pass harmlessly above both her targets. Ignoring the steady stream of damage control information, she refined, lowering her guns, shooting again. Still high, she recalibrated, settling the sight picture and fin
ally enjoyed seeing enemy shields flare and ripple.

  Boat rolled under her as she struggled to keep her starboard batteries in line to strike at both targets. “Captain, roll us back!”

  With agonizing sloth, Boaz cleared her sight picture again. Bryana refined her zero, shooting ever more left until she corrected the targeting. A bogey flared, dying brilliantly as Boaz connected. Confident now, the corrections in the comm, she refined the data and whooped as the second ship flared and disintegrated under her deadly guns.

  “We did it!” she hollered, dancing her feet on the deck.

  For a second she sat, stunned, panting as if she’d run a mile. She blinked, sweat coursing down her face, mingling with the tracks of dried tears. G forces returned to a normal one gravity. Her suit crackled as atmosphere flooded the bridge swirling the remains of the pale twisting smoke.

  “Bogeys destroyed. Misha? Damage control report? Misha?”

  No answer.

  At the “all clear”, Bryana cracked her helmet, thankful to wipe at the wetness clinging to her face.

  “Boaz ?” Carrasco asked, Staring pensively at the main monitor. “Status? What’s our prognosis for survival?”

  Bryana’s smile froze on her face. Survival? She turned to peer at Carrasco as he lifted his helmet ring, face expressionless.

  “Zero, Captain. I’m afraid we’re dead in space. Bridge has not depressurized as of this time. Life support can be cobbled together for another five hours. Beyond that, life duration will depend on how long it takes to freeze and bleed away atmosphere.”

  Sol pursed his lips, a weary dejection slumping his shoulders. “I suspected as much. How many dead?”

  “Collating data.”

  Bryana closed her eyes, leaning back, echoes of her death warrant ringing in her ears. She sniffed, smelling smoke in the air. Wasn’t it already colder?

  “Reactor?” Carrasco asked, subdued.