Then another wave of unendurable pressure crushed him against the bulkhead and into a well of pain and terror.
Nikita drifted, rising on soft clouds of star winds. About him, he could hear the bees. A taste of honey filled his mouth, as he waited for the bees.
* * *
The universe crashed on Sol’s chest. He was choking on his tongue, drowning in blood as he tried to cough from empty lungs. His stomach heaved, clearing his throat with vile acid that burned his nose and eyes and tasted of regurgitated coffee.
He gasped for air while he desperately tried to stop the headlong flight of Boaz. He missed the contact of his headset. Weak as a kitten, he fought the suit to get his hand on the console. With numb fingers, he tapped out the “cancel” command and struggled to catch his breath as he spit blood and vomit from his mouth. A million gravities seemed to lift off his chest.
Every light on the bridge flashed. Retching violently, he spit bloody bile onto the deck and looked stupidly at the disaster around him. Bryana moved painfully in her chair—her face a mass of blood and bruises. She, too, spit a gob of coagulated blood from her mouth.
“See to ... Art.” Sol coughed, and checked the screens. Three streaks of light showed the remaining attackers fleeing. For the moment they might be safe. Fearfully, his eyes strayed to the reactor monitors. Fluctuating—but stable.
“Happy!” Sol gasped into the comm. “Shut the systems down. Minimal power!” He lifted Connie’s helmet to see her battered, bloody face. Too much g, but the suit monitors indicated she lived.
“What the hell happened, Cap?” Happy’s stunned voice came through.
“Sellers,” Sol gasped. “Bastard waited until we matched. Blew his antimatter straight at us.”
Every bone seemed wrenched out of its socket. He coughed up more blood as Art came around. Having nothing else, Sol dripped a little coffee between Connie’s bloody lips. Her eyes flickered open, red from burst blood vessels. “You’re alive,” Sol told her. “We won!”
“Captain?” Bryana pointed to the screen. More white dots dropped toward them.
“Who?”
Art chuckled, running fingers through his blood-caked beard. “Enesco, Craftsman, Tubalcain, and Acacia. The Craft has come!”
* * *
Sol counted the dead—fifteen men and women from among his crew and passengers. Captain Mason continued searching for anyone who might have been blown out by decompression. Lietov’s body was hauled off unceremoniously and pitched outside.
Nikita hovered on the verge of death, his med unit keeping him alive—barely.
They shot Archon’s physical remains out in a special ceremony. Then Dee and her husband Arness were put alongside Mikhi Hitavia and Texahi. Connie pulled the lever that blew them out into space along with Bret Muriaki, Ijima, Gus Jordache, Pietre Gornyenko and others.
The look in Peg’s eyes as Bret’s body spiraled out into the frigid wastes of space would haunt him forever.
Sol made his way to the bridge. Origue Sanchez worked a cleaning machine, wiping up the gore and goo under Bryana’s careful supervision. Sol grimaced. “First Officer, get down to the hospital. You look like walking death.”
“Yes, sir,” Bryana agreed. She gasped as she got to her feet. “With all respect, sir. You don’t look much better.”
She hobbled out as Sanchez shook his head. “That’s about it, Captain.”
“Thank you, Origue,” Sol tired to grin, but it hurt too much.
“Need anything, Captain?”
“No, thanks, just a little peace and quiet. That’s all.” He settled gingerly into the command chair as Sanchez passed the bridge.
“Report, Boaz!” He glared at the speaker. Nothing.
Sol took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t know what’s wrong with you. I know you’re in there! Damn it! You took my order! You saved our lives. Come on! Talk to me!”
Had she? Had she responded to his frantic order? He hadn’t thought the proper access for comm. He’d simply yelled and the ship reacted. It had to have been that way!
“You can’t run from it. What’s the matter? Can’t take the heat? Life is too much for you? Well, girl, that’s what existence is all about. It’s pain and hurt and suffering and responsibility. Now, you consider, Boaz; as a sentient creature, you’re going to hurt. It’s the way the game’s played. No nice, safe security. Out here, there’s death and horror and all the other miserable pitfalls of poking around.”
The speaker remained mute.
“Well, I guess that’s the end of artificial intelligence. Can’t take the stress when the chips are down.” He slapped his command chair arm. “Sorry, ship . . . but I guess you just weren’t good enough.”
The silence dragged. Sol dropped his head, chin resting on his chest. One by one, the tears leaked through, trickling down his hot bruised face.
“You vile bit of organic trash!” the speaker stuttered. “You insolent little bit of biological tissue. You dare insult me? Who put you back together? Who saved your pitiful short-lived life? Who’s bleeding all over the bridge? Damn you, Carrasco!”
“Boaz? ... or the Artifact? How do I know? What do I trust? Are you Boaz ?”
“You bet your ass, you half-wit son of an Arcturian whore!”
Sol blinked. “Half-wit son of ...” Of course! The only true proof she could give him! Happy’s favorite personality!
“Captain, I’m . . . still a little . . . this may take some time. I have a lot to ... deal with.”
Sol studied the boards before he looked up. “Are you the only one in there? Is there anything alien?”
“I’m . . . myself, Captain. Whatever that is.”
“Want to talk about it?” Sol asked, hearing Boaz’s distress.
The long pause left him wondering. How much damage had she suffered? “Captain, I released a considerable amount of manufactured emotion when I fought with the alien. And she fought back—with hatred and . . . loathing, insane rage against life itself. And I absorbed that . . . and I ... I ...” Her voice trembled. “I’m lonely and scared! Sol, I don’t know who or what I am anymore! ”
Sol grinned and gasped at the sudden pain in his face. “Welcome to reality, good ship. You’re not alone. We’re all around you. You aren’t physically human, Boaz. But now you know how the rest of us feel twenty-four hours a day.”
“You won’t leave me?” she asked tremulously.
“No,” he sighed. “Not ever.”
* * *
Boaz was a mass of holes. In places, only three to four millimeters of her normal fifteen centimeter thick hull remained—significantly weakening the amount of stress she could withstand. As a result, the trip took another week as Happy and his crew hustled to jury-rig the air plant, bypass ruptured and broken powerlead, and keep her functioning as they braked around Frontier’s primary.
Above them, the Brotherhood fleet hovered, covering every approach.
Beyond them, Claude Mason kept his ships ranging far and wide, searching for Arpeggians. They even found one and blew it out of space when it nosed too close.
As is the case with any trip—it ended; the round ball of Frontier formed on the screens. They nursed Boaz into orbit, settling her into an orbiting repair facility while behind, dangling on cables, the inert wreckage of Hunter was caught up and carefully berthed. Armed Marines pulled half-frozen Arpeggians, a dazed Sabot Sellers and his daughter, and last of all, a whimpering Fan Jordan from the wreckage to be marched off.
* * *
“It won’t be that bad. My report is already on Kraal’s desk,” she told him, seeing the misery in his eyes.
His laugh was forced, covering the pain and uncertainty. “I acted outside of orders. They can hang me for dereliction of duty, insubordination, recklessness, mutiny, assault and battery, and who knows what else?” He moved his lips as his voice lowered. “The whole Confederacy is out there screaming for my blood! Someone has to pay for angering all those politicians and scientists.”
“You stay out of it.” Sol said. “I don’t want you boiled up in this.”
Her heart nearly broke as she saw the desperation he fought to hide. “Oh? I’ll remind you that I’m the Speaker of Star’s Rest. . . and I have a pretty tough veteran battle fleet at my command. They don’t fool with me, Solomon. Not without me taking Frontier apart piece by piece.”
He raised his hands defensively. “Look, don’t mess with the Craft. You’ve only seen a smattering of our tricks.” He smiled crookedly, “I don’t want to go to war with the woman I love.” He pulled her close and kissed her again. “Things will work out. I guess they always do. Besides, I knew what I was doing when I did it.”
He straightened his uniform and winked, smiling his confidence. She took his arm and held it tight, unwilling to let him go. Bryana and Art stood, waiting uncertainly as they made the main hatch.
“Well, I guess this is it.” He took Art’s hand and hugged Bryana. “Uh, look, I don’t know if they’ll clap me right into prison or what down there. I may be in more trouble than anybody’s been in since the Confederate Revolution. I’m taking full responsibility—so if anyone asks, you acted according to orders.” He jammed a finger into Art’s chest to emphasize it.
“That wasn’t the way it was.” Art reminded.
Sol’s eyes flashed and Connie saw him stiffen. “First Officer, did you hear me give you an order? Or do I have to take you back to the gym for a refresher course?”
“Yes, sir!” Art said stiffly. “I acted according to orders, sir!”
Bryana nodded, eyes glistening. “Remember, Cap. You’ve got friends up here. If anything happens, we’ll be down to get you.”
“You been talking to Connie?” Sol grunted. He threw her a wink. “See you both around. You’re two damn fine officers. I can speak truthfully, without ruffling any old ghosts, when I say you’ve been the finest First Officers I’ve ever spaced with.” He rapped out a salute to his officers and took Connie in his arms one last time. She kissed him and then he was gone, back straight as he marched across the dock.
She made her way back to his quarters and settled sadly onto the bunk. She toyed with his forgotten coffee cup, stained almost black now. “So, Boaz, you win,” she said softly, feeling her heart battering the emptiness in her chest.
“Yes, Constance,” the ship agreed. “You were a very tough competitor. Still, it’s a hollow victory. In the end he’ll resent me. Therefore, perhaps we might strike a bargain ...”
* * *
He stepped onto the shuttle, saluted, and flipped his kit into the seat before buckling himself in. He crowded the view port like a kid on his first flight as the craft dropped slowly away from the dock. He could see Boaz’s trim lines—mussed to be sure—but still beautiful.
“Good-bye, good ship,” he whispered, feeling his gut wrench. “Connie, I love you so much. And it’s time to pay the fiddler.” He would be the youngest Brotherhood Captain ever to have fallen in dishonor. With all his willpower, clamped iron control over the hollow pain.
CHAPTER XXXVII
Sol spent three days being shunted from office to office while he was checked, probed, interviewed, debriefed, and queried about his actions. Finally, an aide led him up a worn flight of original stairs in the old part of Frontier and he was carefully scanned with remote probes, retinal patterns, fingerprints, skin samples, and tongue print taken.
He was sitting on a hard bench, waiting again, when Engineer Glen Kralacheck stepped out through a side door. The man had an electrostim cast on one arm and a large bruise faded on the side of his head.
“Kralacheck!” Sol cried, jumping up.
The engineer grinned. “Rough ride you gave me on the way in! Hey, what’s this I hear about my ship? They say she’s raising a double-dyed ruckus up there. A bunch of theorists and even some psychologists have been trying to figure out what happened. They say she’s refusing orders and cursing back until they let you loose!”
Sol shook his head, mystified. “1 can’t tell you. I’m being given a thorough wringing out down here before they put me out to dry. I’m just glad you’re alive. Where were you?”
Kralacheck’s grin showed a couple of broken teeth.
“On Hunter’s bridge. Sorry about that antimatter excitement. He pulled the dead-man switch before I knew what he was up to. Should have heard him curse after you got away.”
Sol nodded, realizing the depths of Kraal’s intricate cunning. Had Boaz failed, another backup had been in place to defuse the Artifact. “How did you get onto Hunter?”
Kralacheck’s smile broadened. “I’ve been working my way deeper and deeper into Arpeggian circles for the last couple of years. When Elvina escaped, I had a tracker on her. I dropped down and picked her up. She thought I was hers all along. In the event they got the alien ship somehow, I was going to get aboard and see what I could do to keep it out of Sellers’ hands.” He studied the floor. “We couldn’t take any chances, Sol. This was too scary. Myself, well, I did some things in the name of humanity that I’ll just have to live with. I don’t know, things are getting worse. Time to get out, I think.”
Sol nodded, experiencing a curious relief. “Thanks for cutting us loose that day.” He hesitated. “Next time, make the fuse a little longer.”
Kralacheck nodded. “Next time, make the ride a little smoother. Each time we hit the end of those cables, we bounced around that Arpeggian wreck like space balls.”
“Take care, Glen. If there’s anything I can ever do for you—holler,” Sol told him seriously.
The Second Engineer’s grin bent wryly. “Uh, Solomon, you might call me Dart instead of Kralacheck. They rebuilt my face in a hell of a hurry, so I wouldn’t have people I worked with on Boaz spilling the beans. That, and we’ve got a man in House Alhar who looks like this.” He pointed to his face.
“Circles within circles? My pleasure, Captain. Your reputation precedes you.”
“Captain Carrasco?” An aide called.
He nodded to Dart, feeling his heart sink. “Good luck!” Pulling himself straight, he followed the aide as she led him into narrow twisting corridors.
The woman ushered him into an antique wood-lined lodge room, the venerable seats in the East, West, and South, standing vacant. At the solitary secretary’s desk in the southeast corner, a yellow light illuminated an old man, a battered wooden desk, and a couple of very old wooden-backed chairs. Sol shot his glance around the dimly lit place, noting the shadows. A band seemed to constrict around his heart as he strode across the worn carpet to stand before the desk—and his fate.
Galactic Grand Master Kraal ignored him, picking a thin sheet of synthetic paper from one stack, scanning the contents—perhaps initialing it—and placing it neatly on the growing stack to his left.
“Please, do have a seat, Captain,” the thin reedy voice finally offered.
Sol carefully settled himself in the wooden chair as the silent ritual of paper shuffling continued. So much? All that resulted from the widespread activities of the Brotherhood? How did Kraal keep track of it all?
Sol noted again the thin, bird’s-foot fingers that carefully manipulated the papers. Kraal was old—very old. How long would he last?
The Galactic Grand Master shook his head, finally looking up from the pile. He gestured with a bone-thin arm. “Do you know what these are?”
Sol shook his head, slightly mystified. “Daily reports?”
“They’re all the complaints leveled against us—or perhaps I should say against you and your crew. I must say, Solomon, it’s another new record for you, hmm?” The old eyes looked him over thoughtfully. “New Maine, Arpeggio—of course—Sirius, the Confederate Council, and several hundred thousand other stations, individuals, governments and so on and so forth, have added their weight to the pile.”
“I see,” Sol said stiffly. He laughed bitterly and softly—a dead man’s laugh.
He’d terminated his career with a crescendo!
“Amusing, you think?” Kraal studied him from beneath lowered brows, the old watery eyes measuring. “That is all you have to say for yourself? A simple, ‘I see’?”
Sol straightened, mouth tightening. “Worshipful Sir, I make no apologies. I considered the situation I had to deal with. I couldn’t convince myself that humanity was ready for the Artifact. In my best judgment, and in the judgment of Constance, Speaker of the Star’s Rest, we solved the dilemma. We believed the interests of the human species were best served by our actions. Beyond that, all responsibility is mine and I accept the consequences—no matter what punishment you choose to inflict.”
Sol hesitated. “One last thing, Worshipful Sir; my officers are innocent of any responsibility in this. They acted on orders—without an understanding of the ramifications. You cannot hold them responsible for what I’ve done.”
Kraal nodded slowly to himself. “I see. And, out of curiosity, Solomon, how did you dispose of the Artifact?”
Sol relaxed a little, accepting his situation. It was all over now. Nothing he did mattered. “Well, considering the problems we faced, I couldn’t think of any place where it would be safe. The thing was affecting my ship. It had driven the Council members to fighting among themselves and, to be frank, it has an incredible aura of power about it. I think I put it the only place where men can’t get to it to utilize it. I, uh, dropped it on a neutron star, Worshipful Sir.”
“Very good!” Kraal cackled, clapping his hands. “Better than I would have thought of myself!”
“Worshipful Sir?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t let you dangle anymore, Solomon. I’d hoped you’d find an answer suitable to solving the problem. Good heavens! I didn’t want that thing! The Confederacy was coming apart at the seams over it! When Archon outlined what he had, I could foresee the problems.”
The Artifact Page 54