The Artifact

by W. Michael Gear

  “Boat, get a med unit here on the double.” Sol pushed off, towing Jordan to the grav control and returned everything to normal. He left Jordan curled over his purpled chest, rushing to Connie.

  Jordan stood with a tortured gasp, staggering, an arm clutched to his side. He stooped, grabbing up the weapon. The stun unit extended on a quavering arm. “I’m going to—to kill you ... like I killed her!”

  Sol dropped as the unit activated. He kicked out, came upright behind Jordan, and wrenched the arm backward. Fan wailed his pain.

  “Drop it!”

  “No! Your head will be mine! You’ve assaulted the king’s nephew. I’m the Earl of . . .” Jordan’s voice gargled into an unhealthy shriek as Sol broke his arm; the stun weapon fell from nerveless fingers.

  Happy barreled into the room on the heels of Ensign Wheeler’s med unit.

  “He’s under arrest,” Sol hooked a thumb at Jordan where he sobbed against the wall, nursing his awkwardly bent arm. “Charges are assault with intent to rape.” He turned to Wheeler. “How is she?”

  “Got her heart started again, Cap.” Wheeler grinned, looking up from the med unit settled over Constance. “She’s going to be fine. I want her in med for a day or two though.”

  Sol nodded, his own heart beating again. He watched Happy pick Jordan up and march him off. Jordan unleashed a howling fit, screaming threats made shrill with rage and pain. Sol gritted his teeth at the sound of it.

  “First Officer Bryana,” Sol muttered into comm.

  He saw her tousled hair, as she bobbed in the pickup, no doubt getting dressed. “Here, Captain! Be on the bridge in a minute!”

  “Whoa!” Sol told her. “Not everything happens on the bridge. Listen, I need you to put together an investigative committee. I suggest you compose it of George Stokovski, Nikita Malakova, Dee Arness, and yourself.”

  She nodded, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. “What happened?”

  “Fan Jordan just attacked Constance in the gym—his intent was rape.”

  “Blessed stars. Rape?”

  “I think you understand. All records are hereby turned over to you and George Stokovski. Um, there won’t be video on this, simply the voice transcripts. I want to keep a couple of our aces discreetly in the hole. However, should you yourself have any questions, Boaz will access them for you.”

  She nodded, a stunned look on her face. “Yes, sir.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “Conviction carries a death penalty, you know.”

  Sol felt his gut tighten. “I’m well aware of that.”

  * * *

  Humans came: aggressive, eager. Their vigor, optimism, and passion stirred the threads of long dormant memories. The Hynan had been just as reckless, boldly seeking her. Like the humans, they had no idea what they’d loose upon themselves.

  And the Hynan had been so superior to humans in every way.

  The Hynan neatly deposed the Tiss. Competitors to the core, they simply brushed their mentors aside, ignoring them, expanding on their own, adapting Tiss science to their needs.

  Immediately, Hynan spaced for her, reading the Tiss accounts with curiosity. The first Hynan who entered called herself Hissthok. Hers was the first manipulator to work the spring. She became the Master. Infused with the narcotic of ultimate power, Hissthok enshrined herself as a god, organizing her empire, dictating the lives of those subservient to her.

  Hatred raged and pooled, the damnation of the spring eternal. Only the Hynan would fall. No matter how well organized their superior brains, no matter how strong their physical bodies, they had found her—and in the end, they would pay.

  She looked up from her resting place, taking a break from the memories. The species called human had come for her. Primitive vessels appeared with ever greater frequency. Some decelerated for the planet, others shed delta V and waited, as if to see what would happen. Another fleet dropped in, carefully shedding mass in a feeble attempt to hide themselves. One by one, she scanned their occupants, testing minds.

  There, that one. Cold, ambitious, he would be perfect. With her sensors, she scanned the pitiful data banks of the vessel. The mind she sought called itself Sabot Sellers.

  * * *

  Bryana shook her head and blinked her eyes. “I know we can’t expect everything to be the same as insystem. We took a demotion to come to Boat.” She laughed sourly and looked around Art’s quarters.

  “We wanted experience,” he pointed out. “Boaz seemed like the way to go.”

  “Damn it! A man’s life is at stake!” Bryana said, curling up on the corner of his bunk. “I reviewed the records, Art—all the records! The man is guilty! He entered the gym, stunned Constance, and was pulling his britches down as he walked up to her. Stokovski and Dee are still looking at the material, talking to Constance, Carrasco, and Jordan, but I know what they’ll decide. The penalty is spacing.” She shook her head. “I have to sign an order that will send Jordan to his death.”

  Art got up and walked over. He settled himself next to her and pulled her close. “Remember when we knew it all? By the golden nebula, we were the best pilots between Frontier and Arcturus. Remember the time we outran the pirate? We thought we were pretty crafty. We were sure the hotshots!”

  She settled into the crook of his arm. “Top of the list for deep space,” she said with a chuckle. “You and I, Art. The new wonder kids at Academy. Now I can’t help but wonder. I thought Carrasco was a wreck, but he makes a lot of sense. Yet we’ve got nonregulation blasters, all kinds of funny course changes. Two heart attacks? Come on! There’s suspicion among the passengers. No matter what’s decided about Jordan, it will be an interstellar incident. Now we hear Galactic Master Kraal has given Archon command of the ship? What’s at Star’s Rest?”

  “Carrasco hasn’t even mentioned those rules infractions. It’s like the sword of Damocles . . . and it’s driving me more nuts than all the intrigue.” Art shook his head and decided to change the subject. “On the positive side, have you seen these muscles?” He bulged biceps. “Now, just let me loose someplace like dockside. I can clean out a whole bar! The things Fujiki teaches go beyond belief.”

  “Oh, yeah. I can compute targeting for five bogeys at once and record ninety-five percent hits.” She laughed dryly, losing the thought. “That still doesn’t prepare me for sentencing a man to death.”

  Art realized he couldn’t change her mood. “Yeah, well, deep space missions aren’t supposed to be like this. What if Carrasco goes to pieces again? More than once I’ve heard him declare he’s going to retire after this jump.”

  “He’s lost three ships,” Bryana agreed, heaving a depressed sigh. “His First Officers were all killed, so why should this trip be any different? I don’t like it, Art. I’m getting a premonition about Star’s Rest. There’s trouble there—more than meets the eye. Damn, I’m—”

  Boat crackled her speaker. “First Officers to the bridge! Condition Yellow!”

  “Another drill!” Art heard himself moan. Bryana bounced to her feet, shrugging. “Let’s show the old boy up!”

  Carrasco bent over the sensors as Art ducked into his chair and took a quick check to determine the Alert status—still yellow.

  “Speaker,” Carrasco said into comm, “the bogey is closing from behind, not dumping V but hanging right under C. Mass distortion gave them away.”

  “Too much traffic out here,” Archon growled ominously from where he stared down from the monitor.

  Art studied the spectrum being laid out by the approaching ship. “Captain, that’s one of the bogeys from the other side.”

  “Suggestions, people?” Sol asked pensively.

  Bryana caught it first. “I’d say when they dropped out, one ship decelerated with everything it had. The other, this one, kept velocity. They knew we had to be ahead or behind unless we dropped out in the middle. They made the assumption that Star’s Rest was still our destination. Since they dropped out behind us, there’s still a second ship back there somewhere.”

&nbs
p; Carrasco’s eyes lit with respect. “Very good, Bryana.”

  Art shot a look of irritation at her and added. “It would seem, Captain, that we have another hour and a half before discovery. Their vector is tangential to ours. What’d happen if we tried to hide our mass with gravity distortion and shut down the braking mass?”

  Sol nodded and gave Art a sly smile. “Always better to stay out of trouble’s way. Keep that as an axiom and you’ll live longer. I concur with your recommendation, Art.” He grinned and looked at the comm. “All hands, Combat Alert! Prepare for gravity fluctuations!”

  Art watched the situation board switch from red to yellow to green in an incredible hurry. He felt a slight flush of pride at the rapid response. Galley—after their first fumbling attempt—had never been worse than fourth or fifth to clear. No matter what Art thought of Carrasco, he sure knew how to straighten out a ship.

  Bryana slipped into her suit and covered his comm while Art crawled into his and fastened himself to the command chair. He turned his attention to the passenger quarters seeing the all-clear. Archon was explaining the situation through the net as Art triggered the liquid mixture which would fill the diplomats’ high g closets.

  Highly oxygenated, the liquid remained under pressure. Following Boyle’s law, enough oxygen could be pumped in to keep a human alive while at the same time reducing the effects of high g. Art barely heard some of the station people complaining, panicking and realizing they weren’t drowning as their noses went under.

  “Estimated time to detection?” Sol asked.

  “About an hour,” Art decided, calculating sensor range against power used to maintain V. “We can change that by feathering the G and delta V, Captain.”

  “Boat,” Carrasco called. “Hide our signal. When they come within visual range, employ camouflage.”

  The first waves of distorted gravity made Art’s stomach heave. With no uncertain feelings, he resented the heavy meal he’d eaten less than an hour earlier. “Uh, Captain?”

  “Yes, Art.”

  “What do we give up for this?” He clenched his jaws and fought the rebellious weight in his stomach.

  “Mostly time.” Carrasco’s voice seemed unconcerned. “With the reaction mass spread in more directions, their screen picks up the anomaly as a field instead of a pinpoint of mass and a streak of directional light. If they come closer, we disperse more mass over a wider area. However, from their vector and the fact they’re traveling so close to C, we know they can’t change course outside of a couple of degrees. They can come no closer than twenty thousand kilometers at their present speed and vector. Since this part of space is unmapped, they don’t know how anomalous we are. Further, when they get the best readings, we’ll be creating behavior no ship they’ve ever monitored could produce.”

  “Pirate tricks?” Art asked, wishing his stomach wasn’t full of gyrating lead.

  Carrasco smiled wryly. “Among others. Didn’t they teach you that in Academy?”

  Art shot a hesitant look at Carrasco. “Not really, they just explained that aberrant behavior occurred among raiders. They mentioned the use of gravity distortion, ship camouflage through paint, and so forth and assured us that our reflective generation camouflage and sensors outmatched it.”

  Sol’s mouth tightened. “It would seem we’re not perfect when it comes to getting information back to Academy. I have some tapes, I think both you and Bryana should take a look. The only thing constant about tactics, pirates, and technology is innovation.”

  And the wait began. Minute after long minute dragged by. Art kept his coffee cup full. The gravity flux grew worse with time. His suit began to turn sweaty, his skin itchy. The creeping dot on screen drew him like a moth to fire.

  “Reminds me of one of those old holo-vids of the American and Russian submarines.” Bryana rested her chin on her hand. “Constant waiting, playing a game of deception.”

  “Yeah,” Art agreed, watching the dot that represented the bogey. Gravity lurched again and his stomach, having digested the long past meal, hardly quivered. “If it weren’t for the tension.”

  “Right,” Bryana sounded snide. “Get a load of Carrasco!”

  Art shot a glance over his shoulder to see Solomon Carrasco, head back, mouth slightly ajar, as his chest rose and fell in the easy breathing of sleep.

  “I know he doesn’t have nerves of iron,” Art grunted. “He almost jiggled into pieces getting the ship out of dock!”

  Time dragged as the white dot of the bogey searched for them. Boat rippled the gravity, almost making Art ill despite the way he’d gotten used to it. Then the beams ceased to probe in their direction and the bogey crawled away, millimeter by millimeter across the huge screen.

  “Want to wake his nibs?” Art asked, nodding in Carrasco’s way. “The danger seems to be receding.” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Carrasco’s well modulated voice returned to Art’s mortification. His innards knotted as tightly as they had when the gravity was at greatest intensity.

  Art ground his teeth, “Excuse me, sir. My apology.”

  Carrasco yawned and nodded. “Excused, First Officer.” Art could feel Carrasco’s eyes at him. “I don’t condone that tone of disrespect on my bridge, Art. I’m willing to let it pass without taking you out in the hall to box your ears strictly for the reason that anyone does odd things his first time under stress.”

  Art voiced the scorn he felt. “But going to sleep-sir?” He bit his lip, knowing how it sounded. Bryana gave him a horrified look and closed her eyes.

  Carrasco stood up, holding onto the command chair. “I want to see you in the gym—now.”

  Art looked into those burning brown eyes and swallowed. “What about the condition yellow?”

  “I said now, First Officer! Bryana is fully capable of handling a departing bogey. They’re out of range and couldn’t decelerate even if they spotted us. Now! First Officer!”

  Art had never made a longer trip. Gravity pulled him this way and that as he staggered after Carrasco. The gym seemed big and open as they entered, the muscular augmentation of the suits the only reason they could keep their feet.

  “All right.” Carrasco turned, standing, swaying like a man buffeted by underwater currents. “What is it, Art? From the moment I stepped aboard, you and Bryana have been on my back. I’m tired of it and it’s over one way or another right here!”

  “Nothing, sir!” Art spouted, in the best academy form.

  “Nothing, sir!” Carrasco mimicked. “Listen, you wet-eared little dock rat, we’re going to be facing more problems out here than you and I together can guess! I can’t have a First Officer I can’t depend on. Get it out, Art! I told you that once before, but I guess you didn’t take me seriously. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing!” Art bellowed, anger rising. “How do you expect us to space with a man who’s almost a glibbering idiot just getting out of dock?”

  “Yeah, I was upset!” Carrasco hollered back. “I’d just watched a Brotherhood agent who’d given me those secret orders get blown into bloody mush! What am I supposed to do? Ignore it? On the other hand, I’m tired of putting up with you and your sniveling self-centered holier-than-thou attitude. You haven’t been past eighty lights from Arcturus, kid. When you’re a deep space vet, I’ll take your crap because you’ll have earned the right to dish it out.”

  Art swallowed, muscles tensing. “Regulations state—”

  “Hang the bloody regulations! We’re talking survival out here, not regulations!” Carrasco thundered back. “If you can’t stand on your own two feet, sit down and get out of the way! Now, what’s your pleasure, First Officer? Do you straighten up? Or do I kick you out?”

  Art heard his teeth grind. “If you weren’t an officer, I’d break you in two!”

  “That’s fine!” Carrasco gestured. “Do it! That’s why we’re in the gym! I don’t know that you have the guts or ambition to try!”


  “Regulations—”

  “Don’t mean a fucking thing! I want you to learn to think and to give a damn! Why do you think I ignored Gaitano’s boy bouncing you around?” Sol’s face reddened. “Get it out of your system, you despicable little worm! Come on, wimp—you tissue cadets know it all! Show me some guts, little boy!”

  The tone set him off. Art threw his best kick and Carrasco caught it, lifted, and threw him on his back. Like two drunken sailors, they staggered back and forth while Art tried to destroy his captain. Reveling in the power the suit gave him, Art threw himself at Carrasco time and time again only to be countered, batted down, thrown into the wall, catapulted down the floor and beaten into a mess of pain.

  He tried. Raging in desperation, he grappled, striking out in a killing blow, feeling it blocked. He shuddered under the impact of Carrasco’s hard fist. Reeling, he dropped to his knees. The room wavered in a shimmering haze, the floor rising to smack the side of his face, lights flashing behind his eyes.

  Grating agony seared every bone and joint as he tried to suck air into his paralyzed lungs. He caught a small breath, then another and another, air tearing through his raw throat in a rasping wheeze.

  Blinking, he glared at Carrasco, trying to get his breath.

  “Get up,” Carrasco ordered. “I said, GET UP! That’s an order!”

  Weak-kneed, Art pushed up, wavering on all fours. His stomach pumped violently, vomit gushing. Gravity fluctuated and he fell face forward, too tired to get his arms in front of him—too woozy to react to Carrasco’s bellowing in his ear.

  Carrasco bent down and growled. “Well? Get up! Or don’t you have the guts? Is that all you’ve got? Do you toe the line now like a real human being ... or suckle your petty insecurities? GET UP!”

  Art flopped, limbs pushing up only to collapse again.

  “Did I make my point?”

  Art gasped, “What? That you can beat me up? Damn you to an Arcturian hell, Carrasco, I’ll get you . . . if I have to stab you in the back!”