W Michael Gear

by The Artifact (v3. 1) (epub)

  One by one, red situation lights began flashing to yellow to green. Sol grinned as he noted that the passenger cabins remained red.

  “Comm is flooded with calls from the diplomats, Captain,” Bryana growled her displeasure. “I can’t get through to other parts of the ship!”

  Sol gave her a boyish grin. “Ignore them ... but leave me a line to Archon.”

  “He’s already trying to contact you, Captain. I’ll put him through.”

  The Speaker’s anxious face appeared on comm.

  “Speaker,” Sol greeted. “This is a routine drill. We will not secure from quarters until each of the passengers has cleared combat status. They’re flooding my boards and I’m ordering the First Officer to route all their calls to you. Please see to it; we’re in a hurry.” Sol snapped the connection off and turned back to the main board.

  “Galley!” he roared into the comm. “Get your butts moving!”

  A frantic red-faced cook stared back out of the screen. “But, Captain! These souffles ...”

  “You have thirty seconds or you’re demoted to waiter, mister!”

  Bryana frowned, wondering wryly if anyone in a Brotherhood ship had ever been demoted to waiter?

  Arturian leapt through the hatch, half-dressed, to drag vacuum armor out from behind his command chair, quickly taking control so Bryana could slip into hers. She got her helmet pulled down and locked in place, resuming her seat.

  Every light on the console glowed green except for those of the diplomats.

  Carrasco had his head cocked, watching as comm switched from station to station. Here and there he caught a crewmember not fully suited, or in the wrong place, and marked them down for departmental report.

  Finally, the diplomats got it together—forty minutes later.

  “Thank you, everyone,” Sol’s voice grated on Bryana’s nerves. “This was only a drill. Kudos to Happy’s engineers. Galley, you looked like a group of cadets on their first training mission. Next time we have this drill I don’t want to be reminded of an early twentieth century comedy film. Since the kitchen help thinks souffles are more important than this ship’s safety, I think a little extra duty is in order.

  “Engineering, since you were first to respond in the drill, galley staff is yours until we play this game again. You can make them shine your armor, scrub your reactor, or crawl on their bellies across the deck—whatever it takes to make them take me seriously.

  “I would like to remind the diplomatic corps that while many of you may be used to the inner systems, we are headed for deep space, beyond the area normally guarded by the Patrol.”

  Bryana glanced at Sol and—Lord of mercies—he actually winked! “I am certain my First Officer fully informed you on emergency procedure. Since she’s very efficient, you have no excuse for future tardiness. I expect you to be in place, secure, and in combat armor within five minutes at the outside, day or night. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Bryana cleared the board and undid her helmet, temper rising. Art continued to give her that glowering stare from under his lowered brows. Despite the healing cream, his face looked bruised and swollen.

  Carrasco had turned to Art. “Excellent time, First Officer. You did well considering you were dead asleep. He looked at Bryana; she fought to keep her expression straight and professional. What was it going to be this time? More self-righteous, picky criticism?

  “First Officer Bryana, good work. If the rest of the crew had your reflexes we’d be the best in the business.”

  No, it couldn’t be! Maybe he was sick?

  “Now, what were your observations?” Carrasco asked, gaze flashing from her face to Art’s.

  She started to say something, then hesitated, aware she was off balance. Damn! He really was asking for her opinion! “Weapons should be on line just as quickly as Engineering. We can cover shields and power from here, but we’d need them if there were any snags in the automatics and survival could depend on their damage control.”

  “Good thinking,” Carrasco agreed. “I’ll see to it. Art, go back and finish up on your shut-eye. Oh, by the way, anytime you get bored, feel free to call one of these drills on your own.” He paused. “Might take out some of that bottled up frustration by getting the old man out of bed and seeing if he can hustle his butt any faster than Art here.” Carrasco grinned, catlike and sassy.

  Bryana caught the startled look on Art’s face and offered him that “who knows” expression she gave him so often. “Yes, sir.”

  Carrasco stood, taking his pocket comm with drill notations. Art sat, frozen, still too stunned to realize he’d been dismissed. Carrasco hesitated, shifting slightly on his feet. Plainly, he was waiting, seeking some sort of response from them. When nothing came, he turned, muttered a pleasant good-bye, and left the bridge.

  Art blinked, face slack, as he reached up to unconsciously tug at his beard. “What was that all that about?”

  She remembered the look in the Captain’s eyes, almost vulnerable. He’d been honest for the first time, in touch, as if the wall had come tumbling down.

  “I still don’t trust him,” she decided. “But, you know, it was scary for a minute—he was almost human.”

  Art pulled his knee up to support his furry chin. “Yon know something, though, I’ll bet Galley will be first to get to station after they’ve been cleaning up after Engineering for a couple of days. He sure fixed them right. In fact, I wish I ‘d thought of it.”

  She nodded. “I’ll believe it when it happens; maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought. On the other hand, maybe Carrasco’s been nipping at the bottle or something. I don’t know, maybe he popped a couple of nice pills? How’s your eye?”

  Art chuckled dryly. “That gorilla of Gaitano’s is an animal. How was I supposed to know he didn’t hold a First Officer up as sacred? He just whirled me around and pow! After he mopped the deck with me, the Cargo Master broke it up—but not until I was mincemeat.”

  “Uh-huh,” she nodded and gave him the old conspiratorial smile. “Gaitano put it in the record . . . but it got lost before Carrasco saw it.”

  Art stood and yawned, shaking his head. “Couldn’t have. I . . .”He stiffened, eyes going wide as it sank in. “Is that what you meant by you’d handle the report? That you’d purge the record of ... Oh, God, no!”

  She studied the stricken look paralyzing Art’s expression, and felt a sharp sliver of fear.

  “Damn it, Art. What’re you talking about? What happened, damn it?”

  “Last watch, Carrasco said I was . . . was assigned to Cal Fujiki for personal defense lessons. Said he didn’t want any First Officer on his bridge who’d let a cargo tech smack him like that without even leaving a bruise on the other guy!”

  Bryana’s chest constricted. “Oh, my God!” she breathed. “Then he knows I purged the record!” Resolve deflated horribly. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed it out. “That’s it, Art.” Misery built into a dull ache. “That will get me busted big time.”

  Art walked over and held her. She closed her eyes and let herself sink into the fragile security of his arms, wishing mightily they could protect her from what was sure to come. It wasn’t fair! It just . . . just . . .

  His voice soothed gently. “Maybe. I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that until just now.”

  She looked up, staggered by the concern and dismay in his expression.

  “If he cans you, I go, too. He’ll have to break in two new First Officers. Hell, what am I saying? He’s got us both anyway.”

  “Damn him!” she whispered passionately. “I’m a good officer! Why did I have to go down for him?” And she remembered that wink. A cold pit opened under her stomach. Solomon Carrasco could break her anytime he wanted.

  * * *

  “Oh, Great and Divine Architect of the Universe,” Sol’s voice rolled out over the assembly. He took in the straight rows formed by his crew, the nervous cluster of the diplomats, eyes switching this way and that in the b
right light of the cargo bay. “Strengthen our solemn engagements by the ties of sincere affection. May the present instance of mortality remind us of our approaching fate, and draw our attention to You, the only refuge in times of need. As we cease to function in this transitory scene, then may Your mercy and the bounty of Your grace dispel the gloom of death; and after our departure hence, in peace and in Your favor, may we be received into Your everlasting Kingdom to enjoy reunion with our departed friends in the just reward of a virtuous life.”

  He could see his crew, heads bowed, thinking of the times they’d heard him deliver the last words over a shrouded body. The thought stirred tenderly painful memories and he envisioned other cargo bays, blackened with soot, scarred from damage control. The grim haunted look played among them as they watched a bunk mate, friend, companion, or loved one resting under that white shroud in the long evacuation tube. He fought to maintain control of his voice.

  “By this act we are reminded that, through the beneficent ministry of death, our brother has reached the end of his galactic labors, and his account now rests with his Creator.” He looked up. “Earth to earth.”

  Art’s voice echoed hollowly from the other side of the bay, “Dust to dust.”

  Bryana finished, “Ashes to ashes,” from where she stood at the third point of the triangle. Turning, she cycled the lock. A whoosh of air could be heard as the vacuum catapulted the final physical remains of Norik Ngoro into the dark void.

  “So Mote it Be.” Sol’s voice boomed.

  They observed the traditional moment of silence. Sol searched each face, cataloging every expression among the diplomats—seeking out each individual on the list of potential assassins provided by Boaz. On none did he detect the slightest quaver of relief, guilt, or vindication.

  Sol clamped his jaw, temporal muscles jumping. Damn it! Someone should have reacted. Someone should have stood a little straighter, knowing the body—with its damning evidence—had been blown away on the interstellar wind. But they stood there, heads lowered, appearing totally innocent.

  Art turned off the three lesser lights of the Craft which illuminated the evacuation tube and Bryana closed the hatch.

  Archon moved up next to Sol as the lines of crew personnel filed out, wordless, eyes downcast. “And, my friend, did you see any trace of guilt?”

  “No. Did you?”

  He felt rather than saw Archon’s slow shake of his head.

  “Then the murderer is still loose, Speaker. I have two options. I can restrict everyone to quarters for their own protection . . . or I can keep mum and hope we can catch this person by some slip. The second option is a gamble, Speaker. A gamble with human lives—perhaps all of ours.”

  “I recommend you gamble, Captain.”

  Sol turned to search those steely gray eyes, brow arching in silent question.

  “Pandemonium will break loose if you tell them. They’ll be incapable of functioning as a body—if a committee ever really ‘functions.’ ” He waved it off absently. “No matter. Suspicion, distrust, and accusation would tear them apart. No, for our needs they must remain ignorant of the danger.”

  “A man has been murdered by one of those same—”

  Archon cut him off. “Another consideration is the assassin. How rash an action would result should we close in? Hmm? Have remote control explosive devices been hidden in the ship? If cornered, what desperate measures would the murderer resort to? No, let’s play safe and risk a victim or two. Perhaps Ngoro was the only real target.”

  “Do you know what you’re saying?”

  Archon’s somber expression, the slight sad nod, the pained expression were answer enough. “Captain, I have to consider the overall balance.” He snorted wearily. “Yes, I know what I’m saying. Each of those lives rests on my decision. Being as objective as I can, I’m doing what I think is best. How can any meaningful dialogue develop if these people come to fear each other? They’re already divided by politics and governmental instruction. Would you have them further alienated by terror of who the other might be?”

  Sol growled, “Perhaps not, Speaker. This simply goes contrary to my instincts.”

  “And what are those instincts, Captain?”

  “To protect. These people are my responsibility.” Ngoro’s words echoed hollowly in his mind—the lurking legacy of a ghost.

  Archon nodded. “To protect, to assume responsibility. Indeed, my instincts, too.“ He smiled slightly. ”I can think of no other baseline of human existence or experience. But, I beg you, expand upon that concept. Can you assume responsibility without also assuming risk?“

  “No, of course not.” Sol turned and started down the companionway with Archon at his side.

  “Neither can they.” Archon waved a hand at the diplomats they followed. “All of them have assumed responsibility for their people, governments, or ideals. They, too, realize there are risks—not all of which are easily understood. Interstellar politics hinge on risk—or would you have a risk free society?”

  “Americans tried that in the twentieth century. Look how dismally it failed. They sacrificed education, research and development, free speech, investment, domestic justice, the right to bear arms, search and seizure, scientific freedom, their environment, and a host of other things all in the name of maintaining a risk free existence. In doing so, they bred mediocrity like fungus.”

  “Indeed, and it cost them space and the future. But to return to the point, we all face a grave responsibility to humanity. A responsibility which . . . well, for which I must risk this ship and everyone aboard. From my perspective, the greater danger lies in letting the cat out of the bag now.” A hoarse passion supported Archon’s statement. “To do otherwise will bring chaos when I so desperately need order.”

  Sol bit his lip. “Why, Speaker? There’ll be division enough when these people attempt to write a new constitution.”

  Archon sighed. “Indeed, but you must wonder why we travel to Star’s Rest to do so. Hasn’t it crossed your mind that a constitutional convention might just as well have been held at Arcturus?”

  Sol nodded. “It has. I just assumed you’d lied to me again. Another ploy to misdirect me from the true consequences—”

  “Circles within circles? I’m glad you keep your wits about you.” Archon shook his head. “No, I didn’t lie about the constitution. You see, the concept was to get these people away from the intrigue, away from bribery and corruption, where money and power didn’t interfere with decisions and rational thought. We selected the delegates very carefully, wanting a rounded opinion that espoused various ideologies and factions. From a distance, a person sometimes sees more clearly than when his nose is against a wall.”

  “And now you have a murderer aboard.”

  “We weren’t perfect!” Archon snapped. “However, the intent was to allow the diplomats to become used to each other. To see each other as people instead of rivals and opponents. We wanted to level those barriers—to overcome ethnic and economic chauvinism.”

  “And, of course, if I revealed that fact that Ngoro was murdered that would defeat the whole purpose.” Sol frowned. “Perhaps that’s why Ngoro was murdered in the first place? As a means of disrupting your plans?”

  “It could well have been to drive a wedge between us. That’s why we must find this individual quickly and quietly. If he can be neutralized without sowing chaos, we can still prevail.”

  “I was ordered to accede to your demands, Speaker. My inclination is to seal them all off and let them become friends later. Given my instructions, I’ll do my best to support you. But for the record, get this straight. I don’t like it.”

  “Nor do you have to. Duty sometimes imposes harsher realities upon us. But thank you for your cooperation, Captain.”

  * * *

  Kraal heard his joints crack as he got out of the grav-chair. The room gleamed brightly, graphite fiber cabinets virtually sparkling. Monitors and comms lined the walls. The place had a curious chemical scent to it
. In the center stood a raised examining table, gimbaled to turn in any plane.

  “Glad to see you, Worshipful Sir.” A woman in white fatigues approached from around the table. She seemed slightly haggard, as if worn from long hours and something more. A dullness had come to fill eyes normally bright and inquisitive.

  Kraal walked stiffly over to stand before the table. Hesitantly, he inspected the shimmering globe of the stasis field that protected the contents. A blurry image could be seen through the haze. Overhead, a plethora of scopes, metallic arms, microscopes, and other research devices hung menacingly.

  “I heard you had the final report in preparation.”

  The woman nodded. “About as much as we’ll get given the preservation of the specimen and our current technology. ” She clasped her hands behind her, lips pursed, staring thoughtfully at the floor. “Some data are still correlating, but I think we have a pretty good idea of the physioloy and morphology. I’ll give you a brief introduction.”

  She turned; a slight halo surrounded her headset. One of the huge monitors glowed to form a three-dimensional image of an organism.

  Kraal walked closer to see. In one-to-one scale, he studied the alien—an image he’d only seen on his desk comm. Bilaterally symmetrical, the specimen would have stood about one point eight meters and looked something like a praying mantis with a long abdomen extending to the rear. The slightly mottled shell had an off-gray coloring. The head had an elongated shape rising into a conelike prominence in the rear. The single eye stretched around the cranium—the pupil a slit. Apparently, the creature had a three hundred and sixty degree field of vision. Under the neck an orifice opened to expose broad flat teeth, their ridged surfaces reflecting the light. Two large antennae rose off the thorax above the joint of two heavy arms ending in padded pincers. Immediately below, a second pair of arms ended in smaller manipulators each with four fingers and two thumbs. Four flexible legs balanced the whole, the feet highly specialized with suction disks as well as retractable claws.

  Kraal exhaled slowly. “Looks pretty impressive.”