"Athens Point welcomes the Aether’s Touch into slip thirty-three. She’s recorded as owned and crewed by Matt Journey, and piloted by Ariane Kedros.” Station Ops used a clipped intonation. "We’ll start with the pilot, then move to the ship and cargo.”
"We’ll need proof of pilot identity.” Flight Records handed Ariane the recorder. Proof of identity was unusual and she felt Matt’s grip tighten on her shoulders.
"Great Bull-s—” Matt swallowed his expletive in deference to the listening Minoan. "What’s going on here?”
"This is standard procedure, Mr. Journey,” said Flight Records.
"No, it isn’t, and I object to paying for retinal matching. The regs don’t require—”
"It’s okay, Matt. Let’s pay, regulation or not,” Ariane said. Antagonizing the docking inspectors wasn’t going to speed things up.
She felt his hands relax and took this as acceptance. She held the recorder against her eye to take a reading and handed it back to Flight Records. Identity forgery in the autonomist worlds was almost impossible, because it required changing all primary and secondary documentation in crystal. Once written to crystal, always in crystal. The data couldn’t be changed or erased, and both government and commercial security systems protected crystal vaults.
A false identity is impossible, unless your identity is created and paid for by the government. Her mind veered away from those thoughts. I’m Ariane Kedros, she told herself firmly.
"Any implants with artificial synapse interfaces?” asked Flight Records.
"No.” Ariane shivered as the slim, humming detection wand waved over her head, neck, and back. Her implants were the common, innocuous kinds, used for communications, drug monitoring, or storage of personal information. CAW had outlawed synapse interfaces for piloting vehicles and denied air and space pilot licenses to anyone who still sported such an interface. Hospital vegetable bins were full of those who had jumped on the wet-ware craze a couple of decades ago. Early adopters didn’t consider the viciousness of the anonymous hacker. Popularity of synapse interfaces waned in the face of the dangers. When they discovered that synapse-enhanced games could be used remotely for murder, the Senate stepped in and created legal constraints on synapse interfaces.
"Your allowed delta tranquilizer to cognitive dissonance enhancer ratio is . . .” The eyebrows of Flight Records went up as she read Ariane’s profile on the slate. Frowning, she evaluated Ariane’s small frame from head to foot. "Those are high.”
"Medically evaluated each year,” Ariane said.
Flight Records shrugged and held out the slate. "Unlock privacy control and approve dose-rate measurements, please.”
Ariane thumbed the slate and gave her public password for voiceprint analysis. The slate downloaded readings from her implant and showed doses of d-tranny, clash, and bright, as well as radiation exposures. They would request the same from Matt, but purely as a health measure. For the N-space pilot, this was a compliance check.
Now was the time to admit she’d operated under smooth. At the least, she could bypass the brain-wave panel and Matt might quickly proceed into customs inspections. At the worst, they might fine her or revoke her license. Ariane drew a deep breath.
"I’m making a statement of personal status,” she said.
"Don’t, Ari.” Matt’s hands felt heavier. "Hoping to get through this quickly, Mr. Journey?” A pleasant voice wafted toward them from the remotes in the corridor. Everyone turned to watch Colonel Owen Edones glide through the swarm of remotes with his usual ease.
"What’s he doing here?” Matt hissed in her ear while his fingers dug into her shoulders.
"I can formally vouch for Major Kedros and speed this up,” Colonel Edones said. His black uniform with the light blue trim and insignia was pristinely pressed and tailored. He strode toward them. When he passed the Minoan, he nodded his head respectfully.
Strangely, the Minoan inclined its horns, backed away, and left them. Everyone standing at slip 33 watched as the Minoan departed for its strange ship. A few mouths dropped open. Remotes began to drift away, presumably to cover other areas of the habitat that were more interesting to their owners.
"What?” said Station Ops.
"Shall we bypass flight records inspection?” Colonel Edones asked. "I have business with Major Kedros and I can vouch for her, by signature.”
Flight Records searched her slate, probably only now reading the notes appended to Ariane’s pilot license that read "Member of AFCAW Reserve, rank Major, assigned to Directorate of Intelligence, rated to pilot light military air vehicles under seven metric tons and space vehicles OFSV-16, OFSV-19, Naga-20, Naga-21, Naga-24.” She handed her slate to Colonel Edones, who applied his thumbprint.
Station Ops was peeved. "But our procedures—”
"Bypassed on my authority,” Edones said, his tone quiet and implacable.
"We don’t need your help, Edones.” In contrast, Matt’s voice sounded young and rough.
"Major, tell your boy to calm down. I’m carrying orders for you.”
Ariane twisted away from Matt to face both of them. She understood Matt’s antipathy for Edones, but she’d never figured out why Edones returned the hostility.
"You can refuse the orders, Ari. I’ll sign the 932 that says you’re necessary for your civilian job.” Matt’s face took on that familiar stubborn look. He had evidently read up on the regulations, but sadly, he didn’t understand the true hold that AFCAW held over her.
"That’ll never happen, will it, Major?” Edones had a small, grim smile on his face.
"I’ll remind both of you that I make my own decisions,” she said. "I’ll decide after looking over the orders.”
"Only under secure conditions. I suggest we talk, while Mr. Journey handles his inspections.” Edones turned and walked toward his slip, apparently confident that she’d follow.
She felt a surge of resentment and wondered whether she could puncture his confident arrogance, just once. But if anything defined Ariane Kedros, it was her duties and assignments for the Directorate of Intelligence. She began to follow Edones, but Matt grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him.
"Ari, I can’t go through this again. You understand?” His eyes were wide, his jaw muscles clenched and raised.
She knew what he meant. Matt had looked like that after he’d supported her head and kept her safe as she convulsed and vomited, purging her last celebration binge, her reward for getting through her last assignment alive.
"It won’t happen again. I promise.” Her voice was steady, but she swallowed hard as she remembered the rich taste of beer mixed with burning shots of liquor and the sweet smooth—all in quantities that could kill a bull. She was lying.
"Good. Don’t take any assignment from Edones until you talk with me.” He squeezed her arm with friendly concern.
Deep down, she felt a tiny kernel of disappointment stir. She was sure Matt didn’t believe her, but he wouldn’t confront her. Why didn’t he walk away and give her the contempt she deserved?
Matt watched Ari catch up with Edones. He shook his head. Whenever that smarmy colonel showed up, Ari would disappear on mysterious missions that Matt suspected were also dangerous.
He’d started to depend upon her. So much that he’d place his life in her hands—already had, for that matter. Just six days ago, he’d collapsed against the inside of the air lock in a punctured, barely operable suit. Ari pressurized the air lock and entered. After opening his helmet and checking his vitals, she’d proceeded to lecture him.
"We’re almost at the end of the season and we can leave that bot. What we can’t afford to lose is the ship, and I came mighty close; if we lost her, it’d be your own damn fault. Really, Matt, what’s so valuable out there that you’d risk your life and ship?”
Standing there with her hands on her hips and that fierce expression on her face, Ari shamed him into silence. He reached into the webbed pouch on his suit, pulled out the bot’s memory module, and held
it up.
Her eyes widened.
"Is that a rhetorical question?” he asked.
She stared at him for a moment, and then started chuckling. That was what he liked about Ari—she knew that sometimes extreme measures were called for to get the job done. That’s probably why Edones keeps giving her assignments. The bruises and medical treatments she has when she comes back, the drinking she does—
"Mr. Journey, I’m on a tight schedule!” The customs inspector still waited to examine the crystal storage and data systems.
Matt glanced down at the shorter man. When he looked up, he saw Ari and Edones turn onto the ring corridor and pass from his sight.
CHAPTER 2
The Terran Expansion League (TerraXL) and the Consortium of Autonomous Worlds (CAW), hereinafter referred to as the Parties, Conscious of the devastating
power of temporal distortion weapons upon the fabric
of the universe, and Convinced that the measures set
forth in this Treaty will strengthen interstellar peace and
security, have agreed upon the articles written in this
Treaty. . . .
—Preamble to Mobile Temporal Distortion (TD) Weapon Treaty, Signed Under Pax Minoica, 2105.164.10.22 UT, indexed by Heraclitus 17 under Conflict Imperative
"I see rank still has its privileges,” Ariane said when she entered the mission commander’s office on the cruiser. The compartment was large, by spaceship standards. A desk and two chairs were bolted to the deck. Behind the desk, the bulkhead displayed the seal of the Consortium of Autonomous Worlds next to the Consortium Armed Forces crest.
"Nice, isn’t it? This connects to my cabin and is fitted with every device available through MilNet. But don’t worry, this conversation can’t be heard by normal nodes.” Owen flashed her an innocent, boyish smile and winked one of his blue eyes. When he didn’t close his face down into that bland politic expression, he could be handsome.
Ariane refused to be charmed. Owen was dangerous. He didn’t have an innocent bone in his body and he’d just admitted that he had control over what MilNet documented. She regretted being on a first-name basis with someone like him—what did that say about her? But I’m not anybody real, not anymore.
She looked around. AFCAW crimson and gold were liberally splashed about the cabin and furniture, but something was missing. It took her a moment to identify what, or specifically, whom.
"Where’s Joyce?”
The hulking and pragmatic sergeant who followed Owen from assignment to assignment wasn’t present. The saying "once you sell your soul to the black and blue, you’re forever theirs” wasn’t hyperbole. She suspected the Directorate always assigned Sergeant Joyce and Colonel Owen Edones as a pair so they could support, as well as observe, each other. After all, loads of bullshit had rolled downhill onto these two and they were the ones that had to clean up. They were the only ones who handled certain secrets that flowed from CAW to AFCAW to the Directorate, secrets that no one wanted to know and everyone hoped would die with these two men. Secrets such as my identity. She knew how much work had gone into her false records as well as those of others, and how Owen and Joyce alone shouldered the burdens, responsibilities, and knowledge.
"He’s TDY.” Owen’s voice didn’t encourage any questions and she didn’t ask anything more, familiar with the temporary duty orders that came from Owen. She had no need to know what Joyce was doing.
"When did the Directorate of Intelligence get its own ships?” she asked.
"Thanks for noticing. Relax. There’s no need to stand on formalities after all this time.” Owen opened cabinets in the side bulkhead, searching for something.
"I couldn’t miss the Intelligence emblem on the air lock. Why would you be given command of a cruiser?” She remained standing and stared at the AFCAW crest behind the desk. Its clean midcentury design of the stylized Labrys Raptor had started with the Colonial Air Forces on Hellas Prime.
"The final treaty’s been ratified and we’re closing down Naga’s temporal distortion mission. Can’t your employer afford any feeds? Ah.” Owen pulled out a bottle. He opened it, sloshing the dark liquid. "Want a drink?”
Yes, by Gaia and any gods of the Minoans. The amber highlights sparkled, and as he poured himself a glass, the sensuous smell filled the cabin. Her mouth watered as she regretfully measured her resolve, and whether she’d lose it with the drink. Ari, other people don’t think like that, Matt told her. Every drink isn’t a struggle of control or a big decision. They either want it or they don’t—if they don’t, they decline it. Rationing and rationalizing your drinks isn’t natural. But for her, the idea of anyone not wanting a drink was unnatural.
"Shutting down the Naga systems puts you out of a job. No more secrets to protect,” she said, trying to ignore the liquor.
That wasn’t true. There would always be Ura-Guinn.
"Don’t be naive, Major. We could always retrofit the Naga vehicle for kinetic weapons, but that’s not our immediate concern. Someone has to ensure the TerranXL inspection teams depart with the same intelligence as when they arrived. They’re still our enemy.”
"You intelligence golems love all this intrigue and secrecy, don’t you?” She moved backward and sat down in the chair that opposed his desk to get farther away from the smell of the liquor.
"You’re one of us now, so live with it. Your orders.” He tossed her a military-issue slate. "Of all people, you should realize how important this particular treaty is. We’ve gotten to the crux of Pax Minoica. Fifteen years of dancing about the negotiation tables under Minoan oversight and we finally begin the drawdown of the weapons system that started it all. We’re going to start destroying the warheads that damage nous-space-time, if we’re to believe the Minoans. . . .” He let his words trail off, leaning back behind his desk. He took a deep swallow of his drink.
"No, of all people, I don’t need to be lectured on the dangers of a temporal distortion wave.” Her voice was harsh.
She thumbed the slate. It contained a copy of the treaty, which she paged through quickly. There were protocols to follow, inspections required by each side to verify numbers of warheads, schedules for destruction of warheads, blah, blah, and blah. She opened the orders next.
At least Owen kept her in-system. Karthage Point was a military habitat, under full AFCAW control and located near Hellas Daughter, the major moon of Hellas Prime. One of Karthage’s missions was testing Naga systems, designed and built on Hellas Daughter. The first treaty under Pax Minoica had curtailed actual testing of temporal distortion waves. Now the test squadron, performing a dying mission, used simulations and tested guidance and targeting hardware without warhead packages. This last treaty finally dismantled the operational squadrons. Karthage also had one of these squadrons, with a complement of TD warheads, qualifying it as an inspection site under the Mobile TD Weapon Treaty.
"This is different—putting me back into uniform. Why assign me as liaison to the Terran inspection teams?” She looked up to see Owen watching her. "Diplomacy isn’t my forte and I’m not familiar with the Karthage facilities. You’ve got plenty of lackeys that can do this assignment better than I can.”
"I have faith in your skills, Major. You can fit in anywhere you want, and be anyone you want.”
Yet I can’t feel comfortable anywhere, with anyone, she thought bitterly. She leaned back into the plush chair.
"I’m thinking of taking Matt’s advice,” she said. "Maybe it’s time to resign my commission.”
"Give up AFCAW protection? That would be foolish.”
"You mean give up continuous observation and control.” Her jaw jutted out in challenge, daring him to deny it. He didn’t. She was watched because she was both an embarrassment and a liability to AFCAW. She tried to make up for it by doing her duty, by accepting these dangerous assignments from Owen, but when would her moral debt be paid?
"Before you hand in your commission, I’d suggest reading the next two packets.”
&
nbsp; Sighing quietly, she went back to the slate. The next packet required voiceprint access. She stated her name, rank, and service number, which were false like everything else. Was there ever a real Ariane? The packet opened and she read the first few sentences before she lost control, flinging the slate across the room.
"Are you insane?” The words hissed through her clenched teeth.
The slate hit the opposite wall, rebounded, and bounced over to rest on the floor near Owen’s desk. He calmly picked it up and handed it back. The slate, being military issue, took much more than her abuse to break.
She stared at the slate in his hand as if it were a cobra, ready to strike. "You’re exposing me to my worst enemy. Isrid Parmet has dedicated himself to uncovering the ’war criminals’ that destroyed Ura-Guinn.”
"CAW has always maintained that everyone followed legal civilian orders. The government has taken responsibility and you are not a war criminal, Major. You operated under authentic and properly released orders. You did your duty.” His tone sounded earnest and he continued to hold out the slate.
"Beating the patriotic drum won’t work with me.” Her tone was dry, but she took the slate back from him. It lit up at the touch of her thumbprint and reopened the classified report.
"Read the background. He’s mellowed in the past fifteen years, with everyone talking about the possibility of finding survivors when ships reach Ura-Guinn.”
"If he discovers who I am, I’ll still end up a smear on the bulkhead.” She skimmed the report on State Prince Isrid Sun Parmet, who was in charge of the TerranXL compliance inspection teams.
"The hide-in-plain-sight strategy can be effective.”
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