The Artifact

by W. Michael Gear

  Archon waved negligently. “The aliens who built this planet.”

  Sol gaped. “You don’t mean ...”

  “You’re beginning to understand. Oh, to be sure, Connie and I searched every square inch of this world. I conducted rather thorough seismic investigations to probe this mountain. There’s no bedrock underneath us. The bottom of the pyramid, so far as I can prove, is perfectly flat, perfectly square, and through antiquity, five hundred feet underground—that being the accumulation of silt from the surrounding flat land as the sea bottom aggraded.”

  “What of the culture? What archaeological remains have you found?” A fluttery sensation churned in his stomach. He glanced nervously up at the moon, wondering if that eye was watching him—reporting to some distant alien God.

  “Nothing!” Archon grumbled sourly. “No cities, Solomon. No jewels, no ruins, only one artifact and one mummified body.”

  Like a chill breeze, he understood. “And we are to take them back to the Confederacy.”

  “Half-right. Your Grand Master Kraal already has the mummified corpse . . . and Brotherhood scientists are, no doubt, even now ecstatically dissecting it. You see, I took the alien to Kraal as proof of my wild-eyed claims.”

  The long climb over, they leveled out on the rounded, eroded top of the pyramid. A small observatory rose over a hexagonal structure as Archon settled the ground car under an EM field shelter.

  “Welcome to my house.” Archon smiled wearily and gestured, as a dazed Solomon Carrasco climbed from the seat. “The view is spectacular. Wait until you see it in the morning. That is, if it isn’t raining. We’re so high up, the clouds often obscure the landscape.”

  Sol followed Archon into a lavishly appointed room, decorated with ship models, medals, awards, holos, and the accumulations of an active and varied life. A beautiful woman filled a holo box with her smile, brilliant red hair shining in the laser generated light.

  “My wife,” Archon said softly, humbled. An infinite sadness reflected in his expression.

  “Her beauty lives in her daughter.” He took the glass Archon handed him. He wasn’t surprised to taste Star Mist. His belt comm beeped.

  “Carrasco!”

  Boaz announced, “Connie will live. I have stopped the degeneration and am in the process of reversing the fungal activity. I predict complete recovery, Captain. She should be fit within twenty-four hours at the longest.”

  Freed of an immense weight, Sol realized he was laughing with relief. He and Archon embraced vigorously.

  “Bless you, Boaz!” Sol whispered.

  Later, relaxing in a large antigrav across from Archon, he mused, “And the artifact is central to all this controversy.”

  “Indeed, Solomon.” Archon stifled a yawn. “It took me a surprisingly long time to figure the key to the puzzle.” Gray eyes gleamed. “It was right before my eyes all the time. I knew something was keeping this system artificially stable. Some energy, the source of which, incidentally, we’ve never found, keeps those moons in perfect orbit despite tidal forces.” Archon frowned. “It’s as if this system has two existences, one normal, the other beyond any comprehension we might have of physics.

  “This system is set up like a beacon. From space, the magnetic anomaly can be noted over a long distance. Closer, the orbits of the planets are immediately detectable as artificial. As you approach closer, the planet draws your eye. Finally, once here, every topographic feature leads you to this pyramid. Every ridge runs in this direction; every drainage points here. From the air, line after topographic line leads the eye to this pyramid.”

  “But what did they do with their trash?” Sol shook his head. “This place would set the discipline of archaeology back thousands of years.”

  Archon laughed dryly. “You assume they were as wasteful as humans. No, I believe they were much more efficient—and you’ll see why. When they pulled out, they left only the large features without the small rubble.”

  “And impossible moons!” Sol grimaced, unable to shake the feel of that odd moon. “Like a big eye circling in the sky.”

  “That black spot in the eye—as you so aptly put it—is a tunnel which goes clear through the moon just like a hole in a bead. It’s filled with a little detritus now, but I’ll show you something tomorrow since we were too late tonight.”

  “Then where is this dreaded artifact? Here in the house?” Sol looked around curiously.

  Archon shook his head. “No, Sol, I’ll not tell you where it is quite yet. Not until the last minute, when we’re prepared to pick it up, will I trust you with that knowledge. Things have run much too smoothly as it is. I suppose all the false trails, the tricks—like the ice mining equipment—the lies, and circles within circles have held the pack off and confused them.”

  “And we came in one ship instead of a fleet also for the purpose of deception, correct?” Sol pursed his lips, feeling exhaustion running through his body and his head beginning to ache.

  “Of course,” Archon clamped a hand over his mouth as he yawned. “A Brotherhood fleet would have brought yet a bigger response on our heels and lent credence to the rumors. One ship, on the other hand, couldn’t be taken as a serious threat by the doubters. Instead, it seems that the Brotherhood is only being cautious—not seriously heeding the claims carried by the rumors. So long as Boat has the strategic advantage, perhaps we—the diplomats included—can decide what to do with the artifact; establish how to regulate who controls it.”

  Archon saw Sol’s disbelieving smile.

  “Solomon, with this artifact, a man could easily control the galaxy—and possibly the entire universe.”

  “Impossible!” Sol couldn’t help recalling his discussion with Malakova and Jordan. “Space is too big—too immense for any one power! To do so would imply ultimate knowledge and power!” Sol added wryly, “Have you found the hand of God, Speaker?”

  Archon’s eyes were haunted. “No, not God, Solomon. Perhaps I have found the sword of Satan.”

  * * *

  The man stepped out into the deserted corridor, a grip in his hand. Carefully, padded feet making no sound, he moved swiftly, keeping to the quiet ways.

  He stopped before the hatch, placing a palm on the security lock. The heavy portal slid sideways with a soft hiss. Around him, the ship hummed softly as air moved through the spotless grilles of the ventilation system.

  Catlike, he crossed to the comm, headset glowing as the system came to life. One by one, security codes flashed across the screen and nullified.

  He turned, walking carefully to the lock that hissed open at his approach. Inside, he palmed the lock to close it behind him.

  The shuttle lit up as the sensors registered his movement. From the grip, strong hands pulled a neat black uniform. Quickly, he peeled off his white body suit. The whites, he tucked and folded, dropping the neat package into the converter shoot. The black fabric stretched over his firm muscles. Only when he’d finished, did he strap an equipment belt about his narrow waist. The blaster gleamed dully, matching the sword and starburst insignia on his shoulder.

  Thus clad, he swung into the bridge, the headset glowing again.

  Grapples clanked as the shuttle powered up, monitors springing to life. Falling free, the shuttle shot hot white reaction against the blackness of space, dropping toward the planet below.

  On the bridge, sudden hailing calls flickered the comm lights. With a black-gloved finger, he canceled access, then took manual control of the sophisticated systems of the shuttle. A soft chuckle crossed his lips as he imagined consternation on the white ship’s bridge. On their monitors, he would have just vanished.

  The planet rose before him as he spiraled down. The faint beep of a beacon lit the detectors. Out over the veld, the shuttle trembled as he settled and rocked back on the throttles. Scanners picked up the hot radiation of a human body as sensors honed in on the heterodyne of the beacon.

  Skilled hands guided the shuttle down, settling on crackling vegetation. Systems st
atic, he stabilized the power, trotting back to balance and open the lock. He stepped down, sniffing the night breeze, catching the odors of the planet.

  Gravel crunched underfoot in the darkness behind him.

  “Who are you?” a woman’s voice called warily.

  “House Alhar at your service. If you’d hurry, please? We don’t have long before dawn. Currently, the Admiral is closing with the fleet. Your aircar is too close for comfort. They’ll spot it immediately.”

  She appeared from behind one of the scrubby trees, a wicked-looking blaster in one small hand. “Then I suggest you turn around and step back inside. Remember, I’m behind you, and I do not have a reputation for innocence or restraint.”

  “Your reputation is most impressive, Miss Sellers,” he agreed, climbing quickly into the shuttle. Only crushed vegetation remained as the craft rose into the night sky.

  * * *

  The beeping of his belt comm pulled Sol awake in the bright morning light. “Carrasco, here,” he rasped, pulling himself up in the antigrav chair.

  “Captain,” Art’s voice sounded tense. “I’ve got some bad news. First, there are five Arpeggian cruisers entering the Star’s Rest system from sunward. They’ve sent greetings and request port rights.”

  “It’s not our business to stop them, Art,” Sol experienced a tightness in his chest. He closed his eyes, trying to wish the Arpeggians away only to feel the cramp of headache coming on full force.

  “They offered ship’s call, Captain.”

  “Tell them we do not receive ship’s call while the senior officer is dirtside. That should hold them. Art, under no circumstances is an Arpeggian to set foot on Boaz! That’s a direct order.”

  “The protocol requires that we—”

  “Damn the protocol! I will not have an Arpeggian on my ship!”

  “Yes, sir.” Art hesitated. “Uh, Captain, the other thing is that one of the shuttles is missing!”

  “Did I hear you right? Did you say one of the shuttles is missing?”

  “Uh, yes, sir. Stolen, we think,” Art sounded miserable.

  “Stolen?” Sol roared, coming to his feet. “You mean to tell me that someone just walked on board a Brotherhood shuttle ... in a Brotherhood ship . . . and opened the lock and flew it away? Is this a joke, First Officer?”

  “Yes, sir ... uh, I mean . . . no, sir!” Art rapped out, “Hell, I don’t know, sir. Bryana is ripping her hair out over it!”

  “Who do you think stole it?” Sol demanded pacing nervously.

  “Second Engineer Kralacheck, sir. At least he’s the only one missing.”

  Sol stopped. Kralacheck? He’d have the know-how. Happy had said more than once that Kralacheck could have run the ship just about single-handedly. Sol’s voice dropped a couple of decibels. “And sensors don’t pick it up anywhere? Boaz doesn’t have a record of the departure?”

  “Just a second, sir.” Art sounded cowed. “No, sir.”

  “Then I suggest you use the sensors to find that damned shuttle. First Officer! Brotherhood shuttles have tracking devices. Sensors were put in ships to track those devices. First Officers were put in ships to read the sensors so they would know where the shuttle is. Very basic, Art. Now, will you go about finding OUR SHUTTLE?” Sol started to steam.

  “We’ve tried!” Art cried passionately. “We’re doing everything in the damn book and some things the book never heard of to locate that shuttle, Captain!”

  “Hey, Cap!” Happy’s voice boomed.

  “What’s going on up there?” Sol demanded.

  “Leave the kid alone! He’s bending backward trying to find that cussed shuttle. Listen, Kralacheck got near a sensor the other day and the needle went clear off the meter. He might be one of ours. You know they wear that special widget in their arm. Or else Kralacheck compromised our security. Outside of Petran Dart and myself, he knew more about Boaz than anyone alive. He could get in or out of this ship with no one the wiser and cloak a shuttle to boot!”

  “Compromised our . . .” Sol stared painfully at the room around him. Like two Patrol officers on the Arcturian docks. If Arpeggio had a mole within the Craft, now would be the time to use him.

  “Boaz?” Sol accessed.

  “Here, Captain.”

  “What security violations did we have? I mean can’t you—”

  “Complete clearance, Captain. I had highest authorization to release the shuttle.”

  Sol fought the pounding of his panicked heart. “Happy, get together with Boaz, recode to her control.”

  “What? Cap, are you serious? You can’t just turn all security over to the ship!”

  “Why in hell not?”

  “Regulations—”

  “Damn it, Happy, don’t you go regulation crazy on me! Look, suppose we’ve been compromised by House Alhar? Now we’ve got an Arpeggian fleet closing. Want them to slip over, countermand our security and wander in with a bunch of armed goons? Boaz isn’t going to become another Enesco, not while I’m alive and breathing! And don’t tell me Kralacheck couldn’t have infiltrated, he could have been a deep agent for years! What you do know about him? Hmm? Ever hear of him before you spaced for Arcturus? No? Then turn all security over to Boaz.”

  “For God’s sake, Cap! She’s experimental! Why?”

  “Trust, Happy. Besides, have I ever let you down before? On Moriah ? Maybe in Sword off Arpeggio? Did I fail you on Tygee?”

  “I’m writing the software now.”

  “Thanks, Happy. Art? You monitored all that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, do me a favor. Don’t initiate proceedings against me until we know whether we’re going to live through this.”

  “Proceedings against ... No, sir!” A pause. “Uh, Captain? If Kralacheck was working for the Arpeggians? Well, we’re in real deep trouble, aren’t we? I mean he could have sabotaged anything in the ship. Some sort of delayed-”

  “You’ve got the picture. And God alone knows what he could have done to Boaz in the process.”

  “Scary thought. Listen, Captain, whatever you need, I’m behind you. Just thought you might want to know.”

  “Thanks, Art. Get cracking on that shuttle and check the ship—stem to stern. Keep in touch. Boaz? How’s Connie?

  “Fine.” Boaz broke in on the circuit. “I fed her a good breakfast this morning. Considering the strides I

  made in medicine yesterday, she should be fit for duty within an hour or so.“

  “Put your heads together up there in the meantime. Let me know what happens.” Sol flipped the comm off and lost himself in thought until the strong aroma of coffee caught his nose and led him through hallways to a large dining room.

  And if Kralacheck had been in cahoots the whole time? Had he purged the record of Elvina’s flaws? Had they been scheming the entire time? He took a deep breath. And how will it feel to set foot on my ship—and know it could be a time bomb?

  “You’re up early,” Sol greeted, seeing a cup appear magically in a dispenser. Archon hunched over a table, eyes running nervously down figures on a comm screen. His posture looked knotted, bunched and tense.

  “I might say the same for you. We’ve got trouble, Sol. Arpeggians are coming asking for port rights.” Archon’s expression went flat. “They . . . killed my wife. I can’t refuse—not as a registered Confederate port.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I would have never ... I mean, who’d think they’d have the damned audacity!” His fingers clenched and unclenched, tendons standing from the backs of age-freckled hands. “They KILLED my wife! Put a blaster to her head and BLEW HER BRAINS OUT!”

  “You have the right to deny them.” Sol sipped the coffee and felt his taste buds jolt. Wonderful stuff!

  “And what? Precipitate war? No, I can’t afford that . . . yet.” Archon pushed a button. “Ezra? The Arpeggians are granted port rights. When they arrive, we want nothing they have to sell. Anything they want to buy, they get at one hundred percent markup and fifty percent duties. That
is applicable to Arpeggian craft only.” Archon’s face twisted as he listened. “Huh?” He nodded, voice heavy. “Yes, I remember, too, Ezra.”

  He turned. “Looks like we’re going to have to hurry, Sol. Connie’s about to be released. We can’t find Elvina, but she’s got to be tied to the Arpeggians somehow. My ships have covered every square inch of this planet. She doesn’t show on IR or visual. She must have literally gone underground. That had to be her signal to them we picked up yesterday.”

  “Good coffee!” Sol lifted the cup, trying to draw Archon away from his worry. Obsessed with his own. Yeah, he told himself, Elvina has disappeared and so has one of my shuttles! Coincidence ? Hardly! So we ‘ve had an Arpeggian agent aboard since the beginning. The entire Craft may be compromised. If so, Arpeggio has access to . . . everything! The pain in the back of his head arced sharply.

  “Chicory coffee, Solomon. That’s genuine Terran stuff from a place called Luzianna. I get it from a smuggler by the name of Crazy Geno. It’ll cost you two arms. And check your pockets after you deal with him—but I got some beans and chicory seeds. We’re going to see if it won’t grow into our first major export crop.”

  “I’ll look him up,” Sol promised, savoring the coffee. He had to get that for his ship—assuming he and his ship had a future.

  Archon bent over his comm. “There’ve been too many ships here, Solomon. Look at this registry over the last three weeks. Sirius, New Maine, Terra, Lenin Sector . . . and the list goes on. I’ve ordered Mason, my third in command to high orbit. I’m keeping four of my six ships as a reserve cadre up there. They’re the ones that tapped Elvina’s signal. The Arpeggians immediately showed up from behind the sun. I don’t think they spotted Mason since my people were dead in space at the time. It’s an ace you shouldn’t forget.”

  “What did Joseph Young have to say about Elvina?”

  “He claims he married her at the request of the church. She was young, sexy, and she wanted to go to Arcturus with him. Then, when this broke, he was the logical one to go. The question is, how deeply are the Mormons tied to Arpeggio and how did they get Joseph’s number so quickly?”