“As to your request for information on the Speaker and his daughter, I appreciate your suspicions. The three of us, however, carried on the most intimate of conversations while they were my guests on Frontier. I trust them implicitly. Sol . . .” Kraal hesitated, his expression conveying sincerity, “Archon and Constance have ‘Eyes Only’ security clearance.”
Carrasco straightened in the command chair. Eyes Only?
The watery gaze looked weary. “Yes, I know. They’re not of the Craft. I can understand your distress. Nevertheless, the murder of Ngoro indicates things have gone awry. I’ll do my best to support you from here.“
The Grand Master paused, a haunted weariness and a glimmer of fear in his expression such as Sol had never seen. “I’ve alerted Fleet. Perhaps I should have in the beginning; only doing so would have tipped our hand. We gambled on secrecy instead of force. Perhaps that might prove a mistake in the end. I’m not sure we’ll be able to coordinate in time to provide you with backup. Nevertheless, all available vessels will be heading for Frontier. As you know, the deep space survey vessels require more time to return for navigational reasons. We’ll give you what we have. By that time, you and Boaz will have determined the future.
“I ... Not even I truly understand the stakes. I’ve reviewed the records of your actions since taking command. For a while, I considered relieving you. I think, however, you’ve turned the corner on bringing the strands of your life together.” Kraal stared earnestly into the monitor. “Sol, in the coming days, remember the symbolism of the Anchor and Ark, emblems of a well-grounded hope and a well-spent life. They symbolize the Divine Ark which safely wafts us over this tempestuous sea of troubles, and that Anchor which shall safely moor us in a peaceful harbor, where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary shall find rest.
“Looking back, I think perhaps Archon knew best when he asked for you. Perhaps, as things have come to light, our only hope is that essence of humanity within.
“Trust yourself. Trust Constance. I think she truly understands the gravity of our situation. I part upon the Square.”
The monitor went dead.
“Trust in Constance?” Sol leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Eyes Only? And not even of the Craft? Blessed Deity, Boaz, what have we entwined ourselves in?”
“I would suggest that the answer to that lies beyond the jump.”
“Indeed.” Sol tilted his cup up, draining the last of the coffee. For long moments, he sat, a sodden feeling in his heart. Trust Connie? She didn’t even trust him! In the meantime, he waited, the gnawing knowledge that he rubbed elbows with an assassin and possible terrorist sinking sharp teeth into his fragile peace. And Malakova packed a pulse pistol around? Great!
“Boaz, I’ve been meaning to ask. I keep finding references in the tech specs to a three hundred sixty degree bridge screen.”
“That is correct. The image generating medium is impregnated in the spongy translucence covering the bridge.”
“I thought that was safety oriented.”
“It is. The imaging materials were epitaxically integrated into the protective layer—effectively tripling the junction of design. Not only does the material cushion, it generates images and seals against particle infiltration and decompression.”
“Well, let’s see it, Boaz. ”
The bridge disappeared into the deep blackness of space, grayed by the vast infinity of stars, their luminescence augmented by the screens. In a wide band, the Milky Way glittered in a trillion diamond points of light.
Sol tensed, on the verge of vertigo. Boaz had compensated for redshift, the stars looking as they would at rest. Around him, only the instruments of the command chair remained, glaring technology in the midst of God’s magnificence. Now that he looked, he could make out the distortion around the console edges and command chair bases.
“Incredible,” he breathed. He sat, alone in space, tied to the ship only by the soft glow of the monitors, the pull of gravity and the reassuring grip of the command chair. Only when he extended his senses could he feel Boaz living around him.
“Do you see space as I do, Boaz? Does this sight obsess you like it does me? Can you feel the immensity . . . the majesty and glory?”
“My perceptual reality is very different from yours, Captain. I read your reactions, pulse, GSR, respiration, pupil dilation and follow your gaze. Stimulus which affects you so, I observe through the full electromagnetic spectrum from gamma to cosmic photon emissions. I see radiation, electromagnetic and gravitational fields and curves, incredible energies and vortices. Glory and majesty are not yet within my capabilities to comprehend beyond their definitive values.”
“I see. This feeling of eternity frightens and exhilarates at the same time it soothes ... so peaceful.” He smiled and let his mind merge with the vastness. Here the drug of space intoxicated him, left him full and ecstatic with the joy of bounds broken, and endless potential and possibility. For this, and this alone, had he taken up Kraal’s offer. Blessed Architect of the Universe, who would have known it could be so good? Not just a bridge screen, but an incredible experience.
“I don’t understand fear, Captain.” Boat interrupted, voice gentle. “My understandings are pragmatically oriented for the moment.”
He missed the import of her words—lost in his own musings. “You know, humans are ill-suited for space. We’re too busy and provincial. Can’t see the majesty for the distance.”
“Perhaps. Your species is the product of a world, Solomon; but even as your ancestors were planet-bound, the influences of the stars held sway over them. For, what is a planet but part of a solar system. And a star? Part of a galaxy. And a galaxy? Part of the universe. And the universe? The expression in this phase change of ultimate reality.”
“And in your electronic mind, is that ultimate reality God, Boaz?”
“Logically, yes.
“And illogically?”
“Only in a primitive superstitious fundamentalist belief is God ever illogical.”
“Don’t let Joseph Young ... or that witch of a wife of his hear you say that. For all her Mormon faith, how can she always be flirting? Worse, I get the uncomfortable feeling she’s serious.”
“She is. Beware, Captain. As we speak, she’s copulating with Mark Lietov. A fascinating preoccupation, sex. Most curiously . . . biological.”
Lietov? What could any woman see in him? How unimportant it all was when compared to the majesty of the stars. The Magellanic Clouds glowed eerily over his shoulder. “I think, good ship, that I’m capable of avoiding Elvina’s snares. She might be beautiful, but she’s mean, narrow-minded, sharp-tongued—and married. No, to tempt me a woman would have to have wit, intelligence, and grace. So far, Temple politics on Zion and who’s wearing what are about as interesting as a stain on the companionway bulkhead.”
“And Constance?”
“Well . . . what is your assessment, Boaz?”
“I have assessed her drive and ambition curves as those of a highly competent and driven woman. She has a remarkable ability to solve complex problems and demonstrates admirable skills at adaptation to various situations. Physically she is in superb condition and maintains herself. She is proud, somewhat vain, and competent enough to allow herself such self-indulgences. When frustrated, she demonstrates fits of temper which are then internalized and molded into constructive motivation. She accepts responsibility above and beyond her duty and dedicates herself to the discharge of her offices.”
“You make her sound like a machine.”
“You asked for analysis. I must admit I’m concerned over her preoccupation with responsibility. At the moment, it’s crushing her alive.”
“That’s what makes her so cool ... so withdrawn?”
“Half the men aboard are spinning romantic fantasies around her.”
“Indeed?”
“Haven’t you let yourself go that far? She’s good for your morale. Your spirits lift every time she’s around.”
“You do find her sexually and emotionally attractive,” Boaz stated factually.
Sol stopped short, realizing the disadvantages of arguing with a computer whose data storage contained ample ammunition to use against him. “Then you’ve just told me that statistically I’m not anomalous.”
“Then perhaps we should drop this for the time being? I detect hostility in your posture and the tone of voice you’re using. The conversation is striking too close to vulnerabilities.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Sarcasm is uncalled for.”
“Just playing your own game, Boat. ”
“You mock me?”
“I do. You have the roots of humanity in your matrices.”
“Please, let’s not be insulting.” With a cool tone she added, “I thought intelligence had evolved beyond that.”
“Riposte, good ship?” He grinned up at the speaker, feeling a sudden telltale warmth. “I could grow very fond of you Boaz—and that frightens me to no end.”
A long pause belied her abilities. Why? Sol wondered.
“I’m glad. I thought, perhaps, your ability to care might have been permanently crippled by your previous losses.”
“Why?”
“I care. A sufficiency, Captain.”
Sol fingered his chin, a frown deepening his brow. Damn it, she was hiding something. “Just how experimental are you, Boaz? Did your engineers know what they were creating?” He hesitated. “Tell me, do you feel? I mean, if someone insults you, are you bothered? Can you ... hurt?”
“Yes. At least, I assume my response—the discomfort and distress—analog to human hurt. To say they are the same is presumptuous. Knowing the feelings to be the same would necessitate shared experiences.”
“But no more so than among humans.” Sol waved it off. “No one has ever been able to prove that individual humans don’t experience the same emotions differently. But, Boaz, intelligence is one thing. Sentience? That’s something—”
“Captain. Please, you can’t prove or disprove sentience through logical means. I can do both, depending on the permutations of philosophy and argument. Either you accept—as I do—or you consider me a clever artifact. In the end, whatever you think will not change reality. Nor am I the only one. Enesco, Ashlar, and Craftsman have found their way to self-awareness—though not to the sophisticated sense I have. A chimpanzee cannot argue the fine points of Nagarjuna’s contributions to phenomenology.”
“Have you told anyone? Perhaps—”
“No. And I’ll trust you to keep your silence. Although Constance is close to asking. I believe she suspects.”
“What?” He stood up, staring around the cosmos, pacing across the stars. He knotted a fist, gesturing passionately. “She can’t! She doesn’t have the Word. She doesn’t know the symbols to activate you. She isn’t one of the Craft!”
“Kraal gave her the Word. That is the right of a Grand Master—to make a member of the Craft on sight.”
Sol stared helplessly, caught by a sudden wave of emotional turmoil. “My God. I . . .”
“Did you know that you’re the only person on this ship who could walk across the stars that way?”
Sol looked down into the eternity below his feet and reality twisted away, leaving him momentarily panicked at the idea of falling forever. “I ... Why can’t they?”
“The perception of infinity would overwhelm them. They’d lose touch with their reality—adrift in the creations of their minds.”
“And if you cut the gravity?”
“Do you think that’s wise, Captain?”
“One way to find out.” He steeled himself. “You see, I returned to space for this feeling of freedom. It’s an addiction. Zero g, Boaz. ”
He fell, hurtling through space, reeling with vertigo as his stomach leaped into the bottleneck of his throat. Shocked senses attempted to orient themselves. The start in his muscles caused him to rise, attitude change wheeling the universe around him. Disassociated, the command chair monitors appeared to turn on axes all their own. The stars brightened before his eyes. Loose-limbed, heart thudding dully, Solomon Carrasco rotated in the eye of God.
A soft terror came creeping slowly from the edges of his consciousness, spinning with him, wrapping smoky tendrils around his being and adding to his discomfort. Reality shimmered, merging with eternal distance. Gasping, he reached out into void, fingers clawing at nothingness.
Frantic, he closed his eyes to shut out the sight, a bit of fragile flesh and spirit crushed by the immensity of the universe. Curled into a fetal ball, frightened, he battled the urge to sob. The feeling of air rushing in and out of his lungs, the pulse of blood in his veins, the texture of tongue against ridged palate, all delighted him with pungent reality. When he opened his eyes, the heavens pulsed and sought to crush him under the unbearable mass of nothingness. Eternity called with the arias of the Sirens. Sol trembled as the essence of himself began to seep away.
Horrified, he cried out, pinching himself violently on the leg.
Suddenly, he lay on the cool padded deck. Around him the white panels of the bridge snugged close. A womb through which only the window of the main monitor pierced. Shivering, his starved lungs heaving, he pulled himself upright.
Boaz invaded his reeling senses, “... All right? Captain, answer me. Are you—”
“Yes!” He blinked, staring up. “Yes, I ... We’ll do it again. This time I want you—”
“Captain, I register panic in your system. GSRs and—”
“Then I’m panicked. All right?” He grabbed the command chair and pulled himself up. “Boaz, this is something to learn to deal with. Panic can be mastered. It’s only a little demon created by the human brain.” He smiled shyly. “Blessed Architect, IVe mastered more than one little demon already.
“Only, slower this time, Boaz. Slower ...”
He hovered, the universe pulsing and throbbing around him. A subtle perversion, his soul began to bleed once more into the nothingness around him, illusion though it might be. The universe throbbed ever more vigorously.
“Boaz, why do the stars change so? Lighter and darker, like . . . like the heartbeat of God?”
“Illusion, Captain. Your vision is trying to compensate.”
Through determination tough as graphite fibers, he forced himself to relax, mentally peering inside himself, imagining his spine where the vertebral column protruded into the gut cavity. There he anchored himself, next to the pumping aorta, centering in a self-defined chakra. From that fortress, he battled the subtle call of God’s infinity.
“Captain?”
He barely heard her call, concentrating on himself, and space, and the gentle seduction of the stars. About him, freedom led away into N-dimensional space. Insanity, loss of mazeway and identity vied with the narcotic of total liberation of self.
“Nirvana’s there.” He reached out, grasping. “Just beyond the tips of my fingers. That’s why I came back. Why I came . . . Only I never . . . realized ... the beauty ... of ...”
“Captain? I’m returning gravity.”
“No. I . . .” His reaching fingers slipped over hard surface as he settled into a new “down.” Practiced reflexes led to him to turn and meet the deck. He sat there a moment, staring at the stars, remembering, an aching hollowness of loss inside.
“You didn’t fear this time?”
“No.”
“First Officer Arturian is at the hatch. I thought it was time to stop for the moment.”
Sol pulled himself unsteadily to his command chair as the hatch slid open, the 360° screens fading into white.
Art stopped, one foot lifted, and yipped, “My God, Captain! What are you doing?”
“Experimenting, Art. Sorry, I had no idea it was so close to your watch. Remarkable relaxation.”
Art stood, mouth a pink hole in his chaparral of beard. “I ... Yes, sir . . .”
Sol smiled warmly, feeli
ng the tingle in his limbs, and strolled out into the corridor, invigorated.
* * *
Happy Anderson caught the hint of movement from the corner of his eye. Seeing things? He took a long look-nothing but empty corridor behind him. Grumbling, he palmed the hatch to the reactor room, stepping into the instrument-packed domain he delighted in.
Too many hours? He cocked his head, turning on his heel. After several seconds, he palmed the hatch again, peering down the long white tunnel.
Second Engineer Kralacheck strode purposefully down the corridor.
Happy screwed his expression into a craggy knot, and lifted his callused thumb to chew the knuckle.
What bothered him? The furtive way Kralacheck walked? The fact the man should have been sound asleep so he could make watch?
“Boaz?”
“You want something, you creepy chunk of protoplasm?”
She responded in his favorite personality, that of a witty, slightly sarcastic opponent. But then, through the years, Happy had come to believe that particular anima inhabited machinery anyway, breathing its irreverent nature down to the electrons. His personal distinction of “Thou” in the physical world.
“Yeah,” he frowned. “Just real quick, where’s Kralacheck going?”
She didn’t hesitate. “The Second Engineer is currently asleep in his quarters.”
“He’s skipping down the hallway. Now, don’t give me that. I just saw him.”
I beg to differ with you, but knowing your flawed biological proclivities I’d be happy to ... make a monkey out of you?“
“Ancestry aside, I just saw Kralacheck walking down—”
“Look, neutron head, my sensors show that he’s—”
The Artifact Page 27