W Michael Gear

by The Artifact (v3. 1) (epub)

  “And this is creed of your Brotherhood?” Nikita tugged at his beard. “Then why do you not share marvelous technology? Would not all humanity be better served? Enlightened, as you say?”

  Sol stared thoughtfully at the man. “I’m afraid we succeeded beyond our expectations in the pursuit of knowledge. Prior to the Confederate revolution, we stole the contents of all the libraries on Earth. Nor have we ceased to expand on that. Education, research, and development continue to absorb most of our resources. Our toron leases, for example, bring in almost a trillion credits a year.”

  Tayash blinked. “That’s more than Lenin Sector’s annual budget!”

  “And we funnel it right back into such things as this ship,” Sol agreed. “But to get to Nikita’s point, what would happen if we simply dumped it on humanity? Believe me, it’s been considered. Despite our technical advances, we’ve given some thought to applied anthropology, too. Cultures have to rise to levels of technological integration. For example, in the twentieth century, North America and the Soviet Union dumped billions into third world countries in a power play for hegemony. They found that you could give a Nigerian farmer a tractor—but when a part broke, the farmer had no idea how to fix it. He went back to plowing with his cow while the tractor rusted. Nor could he afford parts in the first place—assuming he could get the gasoline to run it. The infrastructure to support technology wasn’t in the society. Now, let’s bring it to the present. Take Boaz. If we handed a ship over to, say, Malakova Station, and a problem developed in the navcomm, who’d fix it?”

  “We could learn.” Nikita grunted.

  “You could. And you would—in a Brotherhood university. And you’d have to buy replacement parts from us. Think your proud Gulagis would like that dependence on Frontier’s shipyards?”

  “But they could make their own parts,” Tayash protested.

  “If they had the right industry.” Sol frowned. “I’ll draw from the twentieth century again. Those same developing countries sent their brightest young students off to receive American, European, and Soviet educations. The idea was good—but a student of particle physics enjoys working with tools like accelerators to smash atoms. Devices like particle accelerators only existed in technologically advanced countries. The best and brightest stayed where they could continue their research, teaching at the institutions that had trained them. To return to the farmer, what good does it do an individual to know which fertilizers to use on which soil if he can’t obtain more than locally derived manure?”

  “You think we’re so limited?” Nikita raised an eyebrow.

  Sol nodded soberly. “In many ways, yes. How many subspace N-dimensional physicists do you have in Gulag, Nikita? No, don’t glare that way. Just think about it for a while. Consider the ramifications of what I said. I give you my word, our people spend a great deal of time balancing the input of our technological innovations against Confederate ability to absorb it. It’s a complicated systems theory.”

  “But we only have your word,” Nikita pointed out, looking unsure.

  Sol chewed his lip. “I’ll tell you what. When you get a chance, I’ll release some case studies. You can crosscheck the data, see how we handled some things in the past, like headsets for comm communication. It takes a bootstrapping operation to keep from shocking society with advanced technology.”

  “And I will see for myself,” Nikita muttered.

  “And you won’t try and fool with any more of our security hatches?”

  Nikita dropped his eyes, admitting, “I couldn’t understand the lock mechanism anyway.”

  * * *

  “What time is it?” Nikita asked.

  “Oh-four-thirty,” Tayash said, stifling a yawn as he looked up from the monitor.

  Nikita stared at the figures before him. “I hate to admit, but looks like Carrasco is right. Unless, of course, he skewed data.”

  Tayash waved at the lines of text on his monitor. “This much? So fast? We’ve scanned a four hundred page report. And I remember some of this. It all clicks with what I know.”

  Nikita rubbed his eyes, leaning forward on meaty arms. “Bah! It bothers me. Brotherhood might know what they’re doing. Is not conducive to peaceful sleep though.”

  “Because it’s irksome to know that someone else might have all the answers?”

  Nikita exhaled softly. “Exactly.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “And consider something else, Tayash. Brotherhood power must be awesome. Suppose this is turned against Confederacy?”

  Tayash stared at the panels overhead. “Now there’s something to think about. Feeling keeps rising against them. If someone—like Arpeggio—were to make a strike against them?” He shook his head. “How would they react?”

  Nikita scratched under his beard. “I think long held views are about to undergo major revision. But if Brotherhood is so powerful, why do they remain in shadows? Considering this report, Kraal could impose will on all of space!”

  “Only he’s philosophically opposed.”

  “Indeed.” Nikita supported his chin on a braced arm. “And if next Grand Master is not so dedicated to philosophy?”

  Tayash stroked his goatee, lost in thought. “Now, that thought is enough to shiver atoms.”

  * * *

  Kraal’s face flickered off.

  “So? What does it mean?” Bryana stared up at Art.

  “It means that if anything happens to Carrasco, we put ourselves under Archon’s command.” Art’s vacant expression turned her way. “I mean those are the orders of the Grand Master. It’s like . . . well, we can’t disobey him!”

  Bryana filled her lungs, exhaling in a heavy sigh. “Wow! What’s going on here? This is all too strange.”

  Art rubbed his face nervously. “Damned if I know. Okay, look, we know things are weird, right? The bogeys, the diplomats, Carrasco flipping out all the—”

  “Art, he’s not flipped out.”

  “So you say. Me, I just don’t like him. Don’t like the way he runs things.”

  She stared stonily. “Maybe you haven’t given him a chance.”

  “And maybe I have.”

  “Crew efficiency has gone up. We’ve got the drills down to where we can fight back against three ships at thirty percent capability and survive. That’s something.”

  “I wish I’d never . . .Oh, never mind.” He turned in his command chair. “But while we’re on the subject, you seem to smile an awful lot whenever he’s around.”

  “And that’s a problem for you?”

  “I ... I don’t want to be stabbed in the back is all. Why should I care what you do when Carrasco’s around?” He stood, nodding curtly. “But Bryana, you’d better consider what’s going to happen if this all falls apart and we’re under Archon’s orders.”

  At that he hurried from the bridge.

  * * *

  “Five, four, three, two, one, Mark!” Sol cried.

  “It’s your hell-hole!” Happy’s voice called as Bryana’s comm took control of the reactor.

  “Sensors,” Sol barked. “Any sign of those bogeys?”

  Art concentrated on his instruments. “Negative, Captain.”

  “All stations, at ease,” Sol decided, delighted to have the screens full of stars again. “Get me the Speaker on comm.”

  Several seconds passed before Archon responded, his voice muddled and his visual off. “Yes, Captain?”

  “We’ve dropped out of the jump, Speaker. Do you have a course correction or do we head straight for Star’s Rest?”

  Sol waited, seeing Bryana and Arturian glancing at each other; it was that slightly mystified, partially suspicious look he’d become so familiar with.

  “I’ll be right up,” the Speaker grunted.

  Within minutes, Archon passed through the hatchway and stared owlishly at the screens. He nodded. “Nice work, Captain. I salute you and your officers. You dropped us in right on the nose.”

  “Where to?” Sol asked. “I got the strongest hunch from list
ening to people that Star’s Rest might not be the destination after all.”

  “Set course for Star’s Rest, Captain.” Archon sounded tired.

  Sol sighed. “Art, Bryana, consider yourselves relieved, I’ll take the watch. I would appreciate it if you would just keep quiet about our destination. Also, if I could talk one of you into it, would you go see how Cal’s blasters work? I’ve been worrying about them since he got to experimenting. Be sure to cross bolts to check the backlash effect.”

  Art and Bryana got up, nodded to him and the Speaker and left the bridge. “I’ll make sure of them,” Bryana called over her shoulder.

  “Good officers those, Sol.”

  “I know. I really hate to have to break them in on a trip like this.” Sol shook his head. “They’re a little too green but since I got the message across that we’re playing for keeps, they’ve been busting their butts to catch up. Star’s Rest, huh?”

  Archon nodded. “Sorry to surprise you, but there are more than a couple of ways to hide something. For example, did you know that some of your cargo consists of ice mining equipment, insula-domes, and cold weather gear?” Archon chuckled, “We laid as many false trails as we could at Arcturus. Of course, if the President had kept his own council, none of this would have been necessary since no one would have known we were about anything.”

  “President Palmiere?” Sol half-asked. “He let it slip?”

  Archon’s lips twitched. “He was the only one on Arcturus who knew.”

  It fit. Sol felt himself tense. “Mining equipment? At last some things make sense, Speaker. I told you the constitutional conference was a little stretched. The pieces didn’t fit. We’re after an object!”

  Archon lifted a finger, eyes serious. “I did not lie when I said the fate of the Confederacy hung in the balance. We may well rewrite the constitution. That’s our prerogative. As to who would ratify it, that depends on the men and women we carry with us.”

  “And you have stretched the truth more than once in the past, Speaker. Will they believe you?”

  “But you, Captain, are the only one who deeply distrusts me.” Archon laughed. “Oh, I don’t blame you. In your place, I’d be doing exactly the same.” The eyes got hard. “What we are about must go beyond the feelings of men, Captain. I haven’t had time to talk to you about it much, but I have seen your interest in my daughter.”

  Sol stiffened. “She’s an attractive woman, Speaker. However, I can assure you that, so far, there’s nothing between us.”

  Archon’s glinting eyes softened for only an instant. His voice gentled in a gruff way. “You misread me, Solomon. I would welcome the sight of you and her together. I was attempting to say that if it were to become necessary, you must sacrifice her, or me, or perhaps even the population of a planet to see this thing through.”

  Sol cocked his head skeptically. Sacrifice a planet? Archon had to be out of his mind! Nothing could be worth that! A cold shiver of fear tingled his spine.

  Archon seemed to lose himself in thought. “Right now, Captain, in your hands and mine lies the fate of our species. From the first proto-hominid who picked up a rock to keep off the beasts of the night, none have faced the power and terror we could let loose on humanity! Oh, I told you the Confederacy is at risk.” Archon’s expression was haunted. “It was an understatement, Solomon—all humanity is at stake!” He looked up, his eyes glazed. In a raspy voice, he added, “We play with the very hand of God!”

  “Perhaps this thing is better left alone?”

  “No!” Archon cried, reaching for Sol. “What I found, another will also eventually find! We must deal with it now!”

  Sol answered with a smile and confidence he didn’t feel. “We’ll deal with it.”

  “Yes. We’ll deal with it. We have to.” Archon closed his eyes and leaned back in his command chair, breathing deeply as he fought to control himself. “I’m a simple man, Captain. Now, I must be a superman without allowing human folly to affect my decisions, my thoughts, or my emotions. Perhaps fate could have chosen better.”

  Sol waited for more, tense, the muscles of his shoulders bunched in knots.

  “Soon, Captain, we will reach Star’s Rest and my burden will also be yours.” He closed his eyes. “Until then, however, I shall bear my burden like an Atlas.“ A wistful note filled his voice. ”I was never born to be a titan.“

  “Few men are.”

  “Perhaps, however, it falls to our lot to try. God help us if we fail.” He looked away. “Yes . . . God help us.”

  * * *

  “You would tell me where I could move my station?” Nikita thundered, a big fist waving in Fan Jordan’s face. They stood in the lounge, engaging in the usual after dinner conversation. Jordan had proved unusually surly, as if some deep anger goaded him.

  “If the good of the realm depended on it, I would.” Jordan crossed his arms and lifted his chin. “The individual must be subverted for the common good!”

  “Captain!” Malakova called, flagging down Sol. “This Mainiac wants me to accept his king as lawful government of human race! Terrorist Communists and Democrats were vile blot within the lifeblood of mankind—but kings? They are malignant cancer in sacred host of humanity! He claims God has ordained it!”

  “It won’t work,” Sol said evenly. Tayash Niter stood quietly to one side, leaning on his black cane, pulling thoughtfully at his snowy goatee.

  “Why not?” Jordan demanded hotly, sheer hatred animating him as he turned to Sol. “Surely they will see that monarchy is the only logical system of government. The Sectors will fall in line after the riffraff in stations are controlled and put to real productive labor. It must happen in the end, as history is witness.”

  Nikita made a strangling sound at the mention of “riffraff,” while Tayash responded tartly. “We are not riffraff! We are people just like you on New Maine. And we are quite happy and productive, thank you!”

  Nikita shot Carrasco a crafty look. How does Brotherhood captain react to this? Perhaps now, we’ll see a layer peeled off Carrasco, get a look inside at true man ?

  Carrasco studied the earl curiously. “How will you cage these lions, Fan?”

  “Cut off their supplies until they behave.” The look Jordan gave Carrasco might have melted steel. Fan’s lips tightened, hazel eyes narrowing. “But then proper behavior seems lacking these days . . . along with respect.”

  Sol’s features hardened, a sudden grimness in the set of his lips. “I couldn’t agree more.” Both men bristled.

  “We make our own supplies and goods,” Malakova challenged. What is it? What has happened between these two? What does it mean for rest of us?

  “There is always force!” Jordan admitted, with a knowing smirk.

  “How many ships do you have, Fan?” Sol asked. “By the latest projections over a thousand Patrol battle-class vessels will be necessary to police the border regions alone within the next one hundred years. Stations in Lenin Sector will drift to Moscow Sector; from there they can drift to Gulag, or to Ambrose, or to almost anywhere.”

  “And where are huddled masses waiting to get into your Mainiac Utopia planet to experience all this efficiency?” Nikita couldn’t help but ask. “Do I see long lines of oppressed killing themselves on gate of New Maine embassy? Hmm?”

  “Given the bombast of cretins like you, they’ve been deluded into prejudice. Brainwashing—be it Confederate or Brotherhood—turns them against us. I ask you, Captain, would you,” Fan lifted a lip, “a man of obvious taste, rather live on New Maine, or in that rat’s nest at Gulag?”

  Nikita interrupted. “I prefer my rats! They do not tell me where to live, how to live, or what I must do. You think New Maine would be so grand and powerful as to move us about like cattle on Range? Not even united Confederacy has such power and—by star-packed galactic center—neither do you!”

  “Blue blood will save humanity in the end. It’s breeding, you see. And by that, I don’t mean the sort of rutting you Gulagis—”
>
  “Fan,” Carrasco admonished. “There’s no call for that kind of—”

  “At expense of red blood!” Malakova thundered, feeling the heat rise.

  “Monarchies do not leave weapons in the hands of the unwashed masses. Kings sit down and talk things out before they go to war.”

  “As in 1914?” Sol asked. “How well did kings talk then? I remember Ivan the Terrible, King John, Caligula, the list goes on. Nice chaps, those kings! Great ones for sitting down and talking out problems.”

  Jordan’s face went red. “You know, Captain, I don’t particularly like you. And it’s clear that your understanding of history has been distorted by the Brotherhood. Along with any other social skills you might once have had.”

  Sol stiffened. “Jordan, you don’t have to like me, and no matter what you think, I’ll stick with my version of history.”

  “I think I keep my unwashed masses armed, too, Fan.” Malakova bent down to look into the smaller man’s eyes. “For I fear you and kind of life you would make me live—backed by your weapons.”

  “Imbecilic bastards!” Jordan exploded, drawing stares from all over the room. Only Mark Lietov seemed amused as Jordan stalked off.

  Carrasco glanced up, a decidedly mellow expression on his face. “Well, I guess he told us.”

  Nikita chuckled, feeling the rush of anger draining. “Perhaps. Bastard? How did he know proclivities of Nikita’s venerated mother, eh? Perhaps he did rutting of his own?”

  Having seen Jordan’s raging departure, Constance strolled over, eliciting a sigh from Nikita. Ah, if only she weren’t sort of woman she was. What joy could be mine. “Too much honesty in you,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “What was that?” Carrasco asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “I see you got Jordan to make his greatest contribution of the day—leaving the room.”