“More than a dozen contractors have pulled out of their leases on Beta Priamos. They’re being sued, or are under risk of suit.”
“They have insurance—”
“Their insurers are reeling from payouts. I’m sympathetic to those who lost their loved ones, truly, but the claims and lawsuits are overwhelming the financiers. That Abram fellow caused a crisis in what used to be a well-oiled economic machine that drove our space exploration.”
He nodded numbly, having run out of challenges. The smug voice in the back of his head, the one he never liked, pointed out that Carmen hadn’t asked about his safety nor expressed concern for his welfare, nor for that of any other “crisis” survivors.
“Sorry, sweetie, but I don’t see this problem blowing over quickly. Forget about G- 145 and concentrate your efforts somewhere else for a while.” She twirled the towel and laid it around her neck.
“That’s difficult. As second-wave prospectors, we depend upon third-wave exploration and development to make back our expenses. Anyway, there isn’t another solar system opening up for several years.”
“Everyone should diversify.” Carmen’s cheek dimpled as she flashed a smile, too bright and hard to ever be innocent. “You’ll find something else; I have faith in you. Call me when you get a line on work that’s not connected to G-145.”
“Sure thing.” He projected confidence. He had to; investors, even those specializing in small businesses such as Carmen, were pack predators. First, they couldn’t deviate from pack groupthink, and second, they must never see weakness in their victims—er, clients. They’d devour him and pick his bones clean.
“Look me up when you dock in Athens Point.” She winked and the call was over, a blessing due to the high cost of bandwidth through the Pilgrimage-controlled buoy.
Sure thing, Carmen. After a moment, he cleared the bulkhead display of recent reports from lessees of his claims. In theory, all he needed to do was sit back and wait for his percentage. Reality, unfortunately, required operating funds from the constipated CAW space exploration and exploitation system. No money was flowing, and he needed funds now.
Carmen was usually his financial ace, his best chance for credit when his need was dire. He stared at the blank wall for a moment and sighed. It was time to look into the offer from the Minoans, as they were the only ones in this solar system holding any money.
The legend beside the door, MENTAL HEALTH FACILITIES, was lined through and OUR HELPFUL BRIG had been added. Ariane grinned. Someone had been bored enough to hack into title storage, but the delinquency was harmless.
After she opened the door, the dichotomy indicated by the changed legend was obvious. On her left, an ugly temporary bulkhead ran straight through the facility. It was raw nano-manufactured ultrapure steel, new enough to emit a metallic smell. On her right was the original waiting room for the “touchy- feely” sessions, as Matt called them. Since generational ship folk, or crèche-get, preferred monochromatic interiors without high contrast, the walls, deck, and furniture made for a soporific environment with their slightly different values of beige.
Two crèche-get, although that name wasn’t always considered tasteful, were waiting for psych sessions. They ignored Ariane as she walked along the dividing bulkhead. A woman watched Feeds on the wall while a young man tapped through articles displayed on the coffee table surface in front of him.
She looked back over her shoulder when she heard the door open again, seeing Warrior Commander dip its tall horns to enter. Warrior Commander chose a solitary seat. Suddenly the two waiting clients were tapping frantically and canceling their appointments, having much better things to do. Nothing could empty a waiting room like a Minoan warrior.
Just past the check-in counter and to the left was a door in the dividing bulkhead. Ariane knocked and entered.
“Good to see you, Major.” Pilgrimage security officer Benjamin looked up from his small desk, his sharp eyes scanning her uniform. His husky build, an anomaly among generational types, who grew tall and willowy under the one gee boundary, had singled him out for this new security position.
She glanced around, noting he was alone. Commander Meredith Pilgrimage, the senior ship commander of the Pilgrimage, had finally convinced the Minoans to recall their guardians. It must have been difficult for Meredith, who had the demeanor of a scholarly grandfather, to assure Warrior Commander that the Pilgrimage crew could now take over the Minoan’s security operation. “I’d like a private interview, under Consortium- Pilgrimage agreements, with Dr. Rouxe.”
“Ah, so you’ve heard.” Benjamin cocked his head.
Always the last to learn. She suppressed a sigh. “Heard what?”
“You won’t be allowed privacy, once the Terran Counsel arrives. He’s taking over Rouxe’s defense and he’ll be monitoring all visits.” In response to her raised eyebrows, he added, “That doesn’t go into effect until tomorrow.”
“Rouxe turned himself in to Pilgrimage authority, and he has Pilgrimage counsel. Why’d he send for Terran defense?” This seemed strange, since Dr. Tahir Dominique Rouxe made use of several gaping holes in Terran security in the process of stealing a Terran weapon. Rouxe couldn’t expect sympathy or generosity from the Terrans.
“He didn’t, but our defense counsel was easily convinced that someone else could defend Rouxe better.” Benjamin tapped the surface of his desk to display a document. “This fellow named Istaga seems quite accomplished in interstellar criminal law.”
In the act of raising her slate to make a note, she froze.
Benjamin looked at her quizzically. “You know this guy?”
“Yes.” She thumbed her slate so she could have somewhere to look, other than his face. “Dr. Rok Shi Harridan Istaga was on the temporal-distortion weapons inspection team that came to Karthage Point, when I was the treaty liaison officer.”
“Doctor? I can’t keep track of these new degrees; what specialty qualifies him to inspect TD weapons, in addition to acting as defense counsel?” Benjamin’s gaze went to the ComNet view ports on his desk, with the fascination only the crèche-get had for current events. Granted, they were always catching up; in this case, the crew of the Pilgrimage III had been out of touch for approximately twenty-six years. Plenty had happened since 2080, most notably the only wartime use of a TD weapon, and the cessation of warfare between the Terran League and the Consortium of Autonomous Worlds.
“Dr. Istaga was on the inspection team as an interpreter. He has a doctorate in Political Science. Apparently, his skills also extend to interstellar criminal law.” She picked her words carefully, but crèche-get could be surprisingly perceptive.
“You don’t believe that.” Benjamin watched her face. His unlined skin, even at the corners of his eyes, didn’t betray his age; he could have been as young as Justin. However, she figured Benjamin was at least 120 UT years. A transparent wariness overlaid his face and he had cynicism in his eyes that came only through wisdom.
“I don’t question his education. I just can’t believe any Terran has Rouxe’s best interests at heart,” she said. “Besides, Istaga’s first move is to shut down access to Rouxe.”
A sly frown formed on Benjamin’s face. “So the Terrans are performing triage?”
“Of course. They need to control intelligence leaks. It’s a golem thing.”
He nodded. The crèche-get loved the fictional drama surrounding Terran and Autonomist intelligence operatives, not realizing that “golem” was an accurate description for what happened to intelligence personnel after years of mindless drudgery spent slogging through data.
While she misdirected Benjamin, she wondered why the Terran League would really send Dr. Istaga to G-145. Her suspicions screamed, because Istaga is Andre Covanni. Andre was the cover name for a shadowy legend in the intelligence field: TerraXL’s most effective wartime operative, whose penchant for causing excessive civilian casualties made him a war criminal in Autonomist eyes. Andre had also specialized in assassination, performed
after covert insertion behind enemy lines.
As Benjamin tapped to unlock the doors to the holding cells, she glanced at the cam-eye view ports. The Pilgrimage III held the isolationists who had boarded and taken it. The converts and moles who had helped them were detained instead far away on Beta Priamos Station, above the moon Priamos, orbiting the gas giant Laomedon.
The cam-eyes showed ten men, nine of them sharing cells with open bars and only one man in a solitary room. Dr. Tahir Dominique Rouxe had asked for special protection from his tribal brethren. Because he had failed to carry his father Abram’s instructions out to completion, he claimed he would be a target for abuse, perhaps even murder.
Whether Tahir had botched his mission was questionable; he had still armed and detonated the stolen TD weapon, intending to escape and leave the other inhabitants in the solar system cut off from civilization and frying under an enraged sun. Only Ariane’s act of pushing the detonation into N-space had minimized damage, and thwarted his father’s plan.
For his cooperation, albeit after his crimes, Tahir had an enclosed private cell as well as controlled ComNet access. In the cam-eye view, he looked comfortable, sitting on his bed and reading his slate. It was a child’s slate: soft, flexible, and with restricted functions. Pilgrimage security filtered everything that went to it.
“Okay.” Benjamin groaned and picked up the spit shield. “Let’s go. I’ve got the scrubbers going on maximum.”
She nodded in sympathy. Benjamin hadn’t volunteered for this job. The G-145 takeover attempt had shocked the Pilgrimage line and reverberated through the other generational ship lines as well. No longer could they consider their ships or their newly opened solar systems to be neutral territory. Even Benjamin’s security “uniform,” light gold coveralls with a shoulder patch, was a new concept. Before the takeover attempt, there’d been no permanent security force on the generational ship.
The crew of this generational ship hadn’t wanted to build these cells. Commander Meredith protested the Pilgrimage III had “secure quarters for self- destructive and mental-health cases,” but AFCAW advisors toured the facilities and deemed them inadequate. A new brig had to be built. It had to be managed, logically, by a new security force.
Open barred cells lined one side of the corridor they entered. The prisoners immediately noted her uniform, and the black and blue of AFCAW’s Directorate of Intelligence provoked outright hatred. They must have learned the Directorate of Intelligence, in the form of Major Kedros and Master Sergeant Joyce, had killed Abram and stymied his plans for getting his own solar system. The clean transparent shield Benjamin carried was soon spattered with spit as they neared the end of the corridor. As Ariane ignored the shouted insults, she glanced at Benjamin, seeing his nose and lip twitch. Prisoner hygiene was adequate for her, but the faint tangs of desperation, hate, and sweat offended the crèche-get.
The spit shield was slimy by the time they reached the safe end of the corridor. At Tahir’s cell door, Benjamin used his public password for voiceprint analysis and applied his thumbprint.
“Rouxe hasn’t been violent, but I’ll still wait and check every half hour. For right now, the node isn’t recording. Knock when you want to leave.”
Tahir stood as she entered, but there was no exchange of pleasantries. After the door locked behind her, she used her specialized slate to scan for recording pips. Terrans, fond of littering about intelligence-gathering devices, had been inside this cell. She found nothing and motioned for Tahir to sit at the small table.
“I know the drill.” Tahir swung his leg over the chair, attached to the deck, and sat down to face her. He ran his hand over his severely cropped hair. “You’re putting together a report, so you can figure out why this happened.”
She shrugged. “It’s called an after action report.”
“What am I talking about?”
“Your life with Abram, and why he planned the theft of the Terran warhead.”
Tahir sighed and she tried not to mimic him. Yes, she was doing exactly what the incoming Terran Counsel, the supposed academician Dr. Istaga, hoped to prevent. The golems at the Directorate of Intelligence would comb through this statement, hoping to find intelligence nuggets regarding Terran weapons programs. The games of military intelligence stop for no one—and certainly not for “Peace.” She thumbed her slate to record and encrypt the deposition.
In a flat voice, Tahir summarized his early years with his father at Enclave El Tozeur, a community that provoked the justice of the Minoans. During their one attack, the Minoans had surgically destroyed all weapon systems and hardened bunkers. Then they had dropped genetically targeted bioweapons to sterilize the men and change the genetic structure of babies currently in the womb. Researchers were still studying the effects of those weapons, but it was universally acknowledged that the Minoans had devised a perfect punishment for men whose lives were measured by the number of their sons.
Abram couldn’t strike back at the Minoans, so he channeled his frustration into capturing his own solar system, complete with scientists and crèche-get who knew how to “create” sons for his tribe. He intended to protect himself by severing his system from N-space with a TD weapon, a risky maneuver that might have destroyed G- 145, had Ariane not prevented it.
By the time Tahir wrapped up his statement, Benjamin had checked on them three times.
They stared silently at each other. She stopped recording and cleared her throat. “I have a request for you. From Muse, the guy who picked us up with Aether’s Touch.”
“Yeah?” Tahir didn’t sound interested, but then, he thought Muse was a person, not a rogue Artificial Intelligence. She amended her thought: Muse 3 was only rogue until Matt could get his AI development licenses. Unfortunately, the fees cost more than three years of her salary—but that was a different problem.
“Muse asks that you leave him out of your testimony, since he never encountered any of your father’s men.” She tried to look indifferent. “I said he shouldn’t trust you to do that.”
“I’m an honorable man.” Tahir frowned; she’d hit a nerve. “Muse doesn’t have to worry about my testimony, but you do. It’s your face that’ll be plastered over net-think. Can you handle that, Major?”
“Sure.” She rose to leave. After all these years, she had confidence in her identity. Owen had created a believable new life and AFCAW had replaced expensive crystal vaults to get rid of her past identity. Now, the more data on net-think reinforcing her new identity, the stronger her identity became. As for her appearance, anyone could change their face, body, skin, and hair if they had the money. Appearance had little bearing to identity.
“Are the flares dissipating?” Tahir abruptly changed the subject. “Is the sun back to normal?”
She paused at the door, tempted to torment him further, because she knew the agony that lay in wondering whether people survived. . . . After a moment, she turned around. “The flares and radiation are winding down, so ships are making runs across the system again. Comm’s operating normally.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Tahir’s eyes darkened.
“How?”
“My father”—Tahir always carefully placed blame upon Abram Hadrian Rouxe—“caused much less damage with his weapon than you did at Ura-Guinn, yet you remain free and my father’s followers will be charged with crimes against humanity.”
Cold squeezed her heart, but she kept her voice steady. “Different circumstances. You detonated a TD weapon with the purpose of separating and enslaving a civilian population. During the war, Ura-Guinn became a valid military target when the Terrans opened a weapons development complex there.”
“A thin line of distinction, Major. There were civilians in Ura-Guinn.”
“Yes.” She stopped. She didn’t need to defend herself to Tahir.
“I hear there could be as many as four billion casualties. Do you really think the Terrans can forget that, just by saving a few thousand here in G-145?”
If you’
re trying to threaten me with exposure, Tahir, you’re way out of your league. He looked down, breaking eye contact, as she watched him narrowly. Plenty of Terrans erroneously called her past self a war criminal and hoped for vengeance; her new identity was supposed to keep her safe from retribution. State Prince Parmet and his staff had already unmasked her, tortured her, and coerced her into signing over Matt’s leases. Half a year later, Parmet himself then revealed this information to Abram and Tahir under torture.
“The Terrans are sending someone to assist in your defense. He’ll be controlling all your visitors.” Her voice was abrupt.
“I didn’t ask for Terran counsel. Why would they want to help me?” Tahir’s face tightened.
“That’s a good question.”
“I’m cooperating with you,” he said plaintively. “I’m helping identify the security holes.”
Which was why Tahir’s testimony couldn’t be released to ComNet: The Consortium of Autonomist Worlds and the Terran League, in spite of their chilly relationship, had agreed to classify his testimony regarding TD weapon security. Even the Minoans didn’t want to publicize Tahir’s escapades. Ariane watched him clasp and unclasp his hands.
“Through all this, I have one consolation,” Tahir said, breaking the silence. “I don’t have to wait eighteen years to see the results of my father’s weapon.”
She recognized what flitted across his face even though his tone was spiteful. Pity. She turned and pounded twice on the door, her motions jerky. He was a weak-minded criminal, driven by a desperate need for his father’s approval. How dare he pity her?
CHAPTER 2
Neurologists point out that we’ve had neural probes for decades, capable of stimulating paths in the brain or burning them out. Changing addictive behavior in this manner, however, alters the personality of the subject. It’s not surprising there are few volunteers for this cure. . . .
Pathfinder Page 2