Unless one considers the role of the Weapons Clan and their God Machine.
The scent of sweet peas lured me away from the crowd and under a large arbor. The vines had grown up its side and had woven a flowery roof that spared me from a view that could be overwhelming at times. I sat on a bench next to a garden pool with a miniature waterfall. For a little while I watched flower petals floating in the water.
Someone approached, their feet crunching on the path. Oddly, it wasn’t until that moment that it occurred to me that we must also have gotten our gravel from asteroids.
Cocteau held a wine bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. She navigated the garden path with grace, belying the sparkle in her eye that I guessed had come from several samplings from the glass—and possibly several previous glasses.
She hoisted the bottle. “I have made a lovely friend. He makes coffee and he likes wine.”
“Ogden Schickele?” I guessed.
“The very one.” Cocteau sat beside me on the bench. She was a tiny thing, and she looked delicate, though not fragile. She moved with confidence. Her demeanor, as she regarded me from her perch, reminded me very much of Dragonette.
Her hair was so white, I wondered if she lightened it. The contrast with her dark skin made her look like a magical creature. A fairy godmother? An elf? Yet despite her apparent age, her skin was smooth, and Cocteau’s accented voice possessed the timbre of a fine instrument, pleasing my ears so well, I knew I would be looking for reasons to like her rather than sensible reasons not to.
“Captain Thomas says you’re the real deal,” I said, “sought after by giant companies, and by captains of ships much larger than Merlin.”
“How could I resist Merlin?” Cocteau set the bottle beside her as if it were a favored child. “She is named for a beautiful falcon, so small and fierce and full of surprises.”
Like you, I thought.
“You know, Oichi—” Cocteau took a sip. “—when I made queries about you, when I was deciding whether or not to sign on for this contract, my sources called you Miss Kick-Butt.” She winked. “It’s the reason I accepted.”
I wondered whom she could have talked to who would have known so much about me, but I couldn’t help smiling back. “I don’t kick people’s butts for fun. These days I spend a lot more time putting out fires than setting them.”
“There’s more than one way to kick butt.” Cocteau took another sip. “Oh my Lord this is good wine. And the coffee! My French soul is in ecstasy.”
Perhaps she was related to the filmmaker after all. “You are entirely French?” I said. “You know this?”
“No one is entirely anything, these days,” said Cocteau, “but, yes, I can trace part of my family tree to France. I can even trace us to a particular region.”
“You remind me of Gennady Mironenko, the man who engineered Olympians. He felt he was entirely Russian.”
“Mironenko,” said Cocteau. “Dear me. I thought I would never hear that name again. They were a powerful family once. Before the war that shattered the Empire, they were a world-building clan. In fact, I worked with a Mironenko, long ago, Oichi. Long, long ago.”
She sipped her wine, and I wondered just how long Cocteau meant. Did she mean that she had been alive in that era?
It wasn’t impossible. Gennady had hinted to the Charmaynes that he was hundreds of years old. He took me out to dinner a couple of times, and I got a chance to see him up close, so I felt inclined to believe him. Like Cocteau, he had possessed the confidence of an older person, but the smooth skin of a younger one. Only her demeanor and her spare frame hinted at her age.
Cocteau was an engineer—she must earn a high salary. Perhaps she sank her earnings into longevity treatments.
She took another sip. “His name was Andrei Mironenko. He built a world called Belarus. Andrei is long dead, of course—he was killed by hostile aliens. We’ll be hearing more from those aliens eventually, I’m sure. So perhaps our little foray into Graveyard territory will turn out to be useful.”
“Do you wish you were going inside the graveyard?” I said. “To study the machines there?”
Cocteau sighed. She set her glass down, cupped a cluster of sweet peas dangling near our seat, and took a deep breath of their fragrance. Her expression was almost sad. “So much potential. We don’t understand the machines, we younger races—not entirely. We learn what we know about them through passed-down lore and through trial and error.”
She picked her glass up again and winked at me. “Do you want to know a secret? Work as an engineer long enough, and eventually you are going to understand something of the physics of how the engines work, how the field is generated, how the ship is moved across a fold. People who do that have a tendency to disappear. I’ve known five engineers who have done that, who got too smart.” She wiggled five fingers, her eyes twinkling.
My goodness, I thought, I should have served wine at my party instead of tea. “By disappear,” I said, “I presume you mean someone kills them.”
“Someone takes them,” she corrected.
“Who would take them?”
Cocteau shrugged. “Some people think it’s the Earlies. Personally, I suspect the Rock Elves.”
I weighed that collection of words. Earlies might refer to an elder race. Rock Elves seemed more elusive. “From the Alliance of Ancient Races?” I guessed.
“That’s just my name for them,” said Cocteau. “You know, I saw them once.” Her gaze shifted past me, as if she were contemplating a grand vista. “If you’ve never been on a survey team, you can’t imagine the beauty of a pristine world—or the terror. We had only each other to rely on, and the supplies on our ship.”
I could have said that we on Olympia had nothing more than that, but I wondered if we were relatively safe here, compared with what Cocteau was talking about. I could barely imagine walking on an inhabited planet, let alone exploring a pristine world, untouched by intelligent designs and intentions.
“Graveyard has barely moved past that stage,” Cocteau said, as if reading my thoughts. “Only a few million people reside there. The presence of the entities in the ship graveyard looms so large, there’s hardly room for anything else.” She took a sip that seemed more contemplative than adventurous. “That world from my long-ago youth was called Canyon. It boasted quite a few interesting geological features—including several canyon systems.
“One system dwarfed them all. Behemoth, forty-five hundred kilometers long on the arm that stretched roughly east–west, and another thirty-five hundred kilometers on the arm stretching south from the juncture. Dozens of side canyons fed into it, and at its deepest point, it descended five kilometers from the rim. We hypothesized that it was a failed rift. The hot spot that created that wedge continues to feed molten material underneath it, pushing its plateaus higher every year than the forces of gravity can wear them down.” She paused for another sip. “That’s part of the reason Behemoth’s walls are so steep. They’re made of cohesive metamorphic rock that was buried and then lifted.”
She glanced at me to make sure I was still listening, despite all the geologic details. “It was magnificent, Oichi. We thought it was all ours. With our dragonfly units, we could fly to any spot that piqued our curiosity, but we forgot—a landform that big could generate some violent weather. We had no idea how suddenly the winds could shift there.”
Cocteau tapped the rim of her glass, generating a crisp ping. “One morning I set out with my colleague, Fitzgerald—he was a geologist—dear fellow was in heaven—anyway, it was a clear, sunny morning. Perfect for exploring. We flitted about on our dragonfly units like a couple of overeducated kids, so confident and full of the spirit of discovery. As the morning progressed, it warmed up quite a lot, so we didn’t mind when breezes began to cool us a bit. Then those breezes turned to gusts.”
Cocteau cradled her glass in both hands, as if the wind might threaten its stability, too. “We had been so intent on the rocks, their faces and joi
nts, the long streaks of minerals that stretched all the way down into the gorge from water that had dripped there for millennia. When we looked up, we saw the big cumulonimbus clouds piling up on the rim. Gorgeous—and a clear sign of danger for anyone paying attention.
“Fitzgerald ordered me to secure myself to the rock face. I found a spot that sheltered me from the worst of the wind. When he flew toward an outcrop that we had named the Vulture, a gust of wind spun him ass over teakettle.
“Fitzgerald didn’t panic when the wind sent him tumbling, he corrected his trajectory. That devil wind changed and blew him in the same direction he was already headed at full power. He slammed against the rock face. The impact sent the dragonfly into neutral mode, which meant it wouldn’t keep him aloft unless he switched it back—but he was unconscious.
“I watched him from my perch, and a little voice inside my head was telling me that if I didn’t switch my unit to active mode and hurtle after him with everything I had, straight down, Fitzgerald was going to die. It was a maneuver I had never performed.” She quirked her eyebrows up and down. “One I still haven’t done, because someone surged over the top of that outcrop, clung to its face with his fingers and toes, and grabbed Fitzgerald with one hand before he could fall. I watched him gather Fitzgerald in, as if that big man were no heavier than a child, and use the dragonfly’s stasis locks to secure him to the rock face.”
Cocteau paused to sample her wine again, watching me over the rim. I realized I was at the edge of my seat. She waggled a finger at me. “The stranger looked at me, and he did this, just as I’m doing now, as if to say, Naughty. You should be more careful. Then he climbed up and over the top of the rocks and disappeared from sight. That’s when I named them the Rock Elves.”
“Because of the way he climbed?” I guessed.
“No. He was almost the same color as the rocks in that area, sort of a dark blue-gray. Later I saw another one, and she was the color of red sandstone. Quite lovely.” Cocteau smiled at the memory. “Other than that, they looked much like us, except that they were taller and thinner. They had wide shoulders and features that seemed elongated compared with ours. So, yes, very elfin.” She leaned back and contemplated the flowers around us. “This is such an enchanting space.”
I waited for her to continue. Hadn’t she been making a point about kidnapped engineers? Cocteau smiled, crossed her legs, and hoisted her glass as if she intended to stay in that mode for a good, long time.
“If the Rock Elves are so fond of canyons,” I said at last, “do you suppose we’ll find some of them in Joe’s Canyon? On Graveyard?”
“You might,” she mused. “I have always assumed that they are members of the Alliance of Ancient Races. If they are, they would have interests to protect in the graveyard.”
Cocteau turned a direct gaze on me then, and there was nothing drunken about it. “I have a suggestion. I think you should call Bomarigala and reject his offer directly.”
“Really…”
“They owe you a conversation. If you continue to pussyfoot around with representatives, you won’t resolve your differences. It’s time to do that, don’t you think?”
My preferred way to resolve our differences with Bomarigala would be to snap his neck, but I saw her point.
“I’m concerned about legal matters,” I said. “I don’t know the laws that pertain to our situation.”
“Well,” said Cocteau, “neither does Bomarigala, despite what he may say to you. You’re inside the Charon system. No one can force you to follow Union laws or Clan laws. If you make some sort of arrangement with the Three, or with the Alliance of Ancient Races, even the Belters won’t be able to tell you what to do.” She took another sip. “Though I recommend you maintain pleasant interactions with the Belters. One always wants to be on good terms with one’s close neighbors.”
“Neighbors,” I mused. “We’ve never had those before.”
She gave me half a smile. “I suspect you may find that word becomes literal, if you trade with the Belters. Some of them may want to move here. Some of you may want to move there, and to Graveyard. Think about what you want, and then pursue that. The Weapons Clan will simply have to adjust.”
I hoped she was right, though I suspected the Weapons Clan had quite a lot of talent for adjusting.
Possibly more than we did.
“I’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll call Captain Nemo and have him establish a link.”
“Well,” said Cocteau. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to suggest another pathway.…”
8
Operational Evil
“Dear me,” said Medusa. “I beg your pardon.”
“I should probably just—” Captain Thomas wiggled her way to the door. “—maybe wait in the hall.” She joined the rest of her crew.
“Or I could deploy some of my tentacles out there,” said Medusa. “Just enough to make room for—are you comfortable, Representative Lee?”
“I’m okay,” he said. “I’ve been in subway cars more crowded than this.”
I sat in Captain Thomas’s chair. Her office on Merlin had not been made to hold a lot of people, though without Medusa’s tentacles, I expect it would not have been so crowded. It couldn’t be helped. Medusa insisted that I wear her for the call to Bomarigala of the Weapons Clan, and I agreed. I needed my most powerful ally. Our recent disagreements aside, she and I were the A-Team.
Nemo would dislike the place I was choosing to make the call, but I was willing to bet he would prefer not to have Medusa in his Command Center again—he had been antagonized, the last time.
His staff could hear everything we were saying on this call. I had looped Terry Charmayne in, though the Merliners were unaware of that. Terry would brief the Security Council if anything developed that required their attention; he had the option of messaging me during my conversation with Bomarigala, if questions occurred to him.
Nuruddin and Ashur also listened in. I established that link without explanation, but I suspected Ashur knew why I had done it. He and I would eventually have some explaining to do, and I thought it best if Nuruddin had some background on our current situation.
“You’re set to make the call,” said Lee. “I’ve typed in the codes. All you have to do is hit CALL when you’re ready.”
I was as ready as I was ever going to get.
I hit CALL.
There was a delay before my communication was accepted, and I used it to imagine the man to whom the marvelous voice belonged: Bomarigala. I pictured him receiving our call, perhaps raising an eyebrow in surprise. When he appeared on the screen, he surpassed my imagination.
Bomarigala of the Weapons Clan reminded me of men I had seen painted on the ancient screens of the Chang Clan. His clothing was an updated version of those fine robes, and his long black hair was bound in the same style. His face, too fine and too intelligent to wear the sort of smirk that had perpetually contorted Tetsuko Finnegan’s expression, was nevertheless cast in the same general mold.
“Medusa,” he said. “I am pleased to meet you at last. Who is wearing you?”
“Can you guess?” said Medusa.
“My first guess is Oichi Angelis.”
“Yes,” I said. “We called to give you a direct answer to your message.”
“I appreciate your courtesy,” said Bomarigala.
If that were true, he wouldn’t be doing so for long. “We will not work for the Weapons Clan as your employees or contractors,” I said. “We will not establish an outpost for the Weapons Clan within the Charon system. We are willing to negotiate with you at a future date, depending on what agreements we establish with Belters, or with the Alliance of Ancient Races, or with the world authority on Graveyard—or with all of the above. Your interests will not take precedence over ours, and we do not belong to your clan. We are independent, and we assert authority on Olympia. Should any future negotiations take place between Olympia and the Weapons Clan, we expect you to treat us as equals.”
&
nbsp; Bomarigala’s expression did not change. “It’s rare for the Weapons Clan to negotiate with equals. We don’t have many of those.”
“Yes,” I said. “We’re special.”
He remained silent for a long time. I wondered if he thought that would provoke me into rethinking any of the statements I had just made. If I had not been wearing Medusa, it would have been an effort to keep a straight face.
“I’m not surprised to hear what you have to say,” Bomarigala answered at last. “We had hoped to see a better return on our investment, but we always make contingency plans. The destruction of Titania forced us to call in some favors.”
I should have asked about those favors, but instead I blurted, “Who made the gravity bombs that destroyed Titania? Where did they come from?”
That may not have been the best time to ask those questions, but I needed to know the answers.
“They came from Gennady Mironenko,” said Bomarigala. Though Medusa and I could not hear his heartbeat, I believed his tone. “It was a betrayal we will never forgive. Now that you’ve brought up the fate of Titania, I think there’s something you deserve to know. We would have debriefed you if you had signed our employment contract, but you may consider this a gift. When we salvaged what was left of Titania—”
Salvaged. So she isn’t a ghost ship, sailing toward oblivion.
“—we found a few pockets that were still pressurized—”
Pressurized? As in breathable air?
“—that contained survivors.”
Survivors?!
“One of them would like to speak with you,” concluded Bomarigala.
Mother, I thought. Or Father. Still alive. That’s what he’ll hold over my head. My heart skipped a beat.
The screen was obscured by Bomarigala’s clothing, as effective as any curtain, while he stood and someone else took his place. She wore a rich fabric that was all too familiar to me. I recognized it so well, I already knew whose face I was about to see when the newcomer sat in Bomarigala’s place in front of the screen.
Medusa in the Graveyard Page 7