Pathfinder

by Laura E. Reeve

  “Sergeant Joyce wants to be put on restricted admin status. He feels he can do his administrative work if he has an issue slate with secret- level access and crypto.” This was the crux of the request and she tried not to hold her breath as she waited.

  “Hmm. I’d have to end his sick leave. Is he up and about?”

  “He can get around and work for a couple hours a day. That’s why he wants restricted status—he’s not a hundred percent yet.” This was an understatement, not a lie, she told herself.

  “Really.” There was a bit of a drawl to the Sergeant’s voice and his eyes narrowed. Oleander tried to look as innocent as possible as they locked gazes. “If you say so, Lieutenant. You’ll go down as the releasing authority for the change of status.” He reached for a slate and made out the orders, sending her a local copy for ship’s supply and storing a copy for HQ. “You’ll have to figure out how to get him the slate.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  She left for her appearance before the board. It might be third shift before she got the slate to Joyce. She’d lose rack time, but it’d be worth every minute of lost sleep if Joyce could figure out who was behind this audit.

  Myron sat at one end of the conference room with another aide. Open view ports behind him showed two other representatives of the board. During first shift, the aides asked questions, arranged data, and dug up information, until fourteen thirty hours. At that point, there was a break while the ICT concluded and Senator Stephanos appeared. Another session continued until twenty hundred, where the real audit board members, the senators, looked at the notes prepared by their aides and asked their own questions. Oleander had joked about this audit intentionally running the crew ragged, but the senators themselves weren’t holding up well under the brutal schedule either.

  Colonel Edones, as mission commander of the Bright Crescent, and Lieutenant Colonel Aquino, as operational commander, sat to one side behind a small table. She thought they looked inspiring in full dress under the AFCAW crest, a stylized Labrys Raptor printed on the bulkhead. They looked the picture of military experience—too bad these sessions are closed to the public. Aquino’s red-and-gold dress coat upstaged Edones’s black one, edged with light blue, with blue and gold epaulets. On the other hand, the left side of Edones’s chest dripped with shiny medals and colorful ribbons, surpassing Aquino’s awards. Those decorations on Edones’s full dress were a reminder of his wartime assignments. She looked around. Colonel Edones was probably the only person in the room who had been on active duty during the war with the Terran Expansion League.

  It was break time and there was a busy hum as personnel changed. Some were leaving, having given their statements; others, like her, were just beginning the process. She pushed through the small throng to the table where the commanders sat.

  “Chief Serafin sends her regards, sir,” she said to Colonel Edones. “She says your crew stands behind you.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Edones replied. Aquino nodded.

  She went to her seat on one of the benches and watched the two commanders. Aquino was the younger, but he appeared ground down by this audit. Edones looked his usual cool and alert self; perhaps he wasn’t as affected by politics as Aquino. She’d seen Edones look much worse, particularly when he was evaluating the casualties and destruction wrought by Abram.

  “Attention please, let’s begin.” Myron sounded more self-important than the last time she’d spoken with him. “Calling Lieutenant Diana Oleander to the stand for a formal statement.”

  Pompous little prick. That was Joyce’s name for Myron and they’d never even met. She tried to suppress the words and couldn’t, so she had a smile on her lips as she swore to abide her oath as an AFCAW officer.

  “Please state your position and responsibilities on the Bright Crescent during your entry to G-145.”

  “I was the senior weapons officer, responsible for planning weapons loads, as well as targeting, firing, and launching weapons.”

  “Lieutenant, when you planned the mission weapons loads for entering G-145, did you consider the costs of comparable loads?”

  Senator Raulini’s aide asked the questions from her offices on Hellas Prime. Her image on the bulkhead looked outward with a severe expression that suggested she carried many burdens.

  “No—but first, I must point out that this was a joint mission with the TLS Percival, so we had to coordinate with the Terran crew to avoid duplication of weapons coverage. Second, we don’t know the price tags of weapons. We plan weapons loads against the threat that Intel gives us.” Oleander had a sinking feeling in her gut.

  “You don’t ever consider cost? For instance, you must know the Assassinator missile is several orders of magnitude more expensive than a load of swarm missiles. You know that, don’t you, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, but I can’t use that as the basis for my decisions. In this case, we knew there might be one ship with an armed TD weapon and we had to—”

  “Do you think you should consider cost, in retrospect?” The woman coldly cut her off.

  Opinion, apparently, even the retrospective kind, was more important than fact. Oleander’s stomach started churning. She knew any questioning that required hindsight could only get worse.

  Isrid was pleased with his testimony this morning in front of the ICT. He’d identified the two technicians who had tortured him under Abram’s direction, although they were only lackeys. Being an expert in the discipline of torture, Isrid knew the responsibility lay with the architect who controlled the drugs, technique, and tone of the interrogation. He wished he could have meted out justice, personally, to Abram.

  He knew the audience had responded emotionally to his story. The crèche-get were the most influenced; they loved and prized their children, even if they came out of birthing chambers. The Autonomists and Terrans, who initially had wary, closed faces, were still carried away by the account of torturing a child to extort his father. The exception had been SP Duval. Isrid saw hostility and doubt shouting from the other SP’s body language. Thus, after ICT adjourned for the day, he wasn’t surprised to hear he had a call from Duval. This would be their first face-to-face direct conversation and before he answered, he tapped the RECORD-AND-SAVE command.

  Duval appeared in a view port on the wall, and bypassed any pleasantries. “You put on quite a show for the Tribunal, SP Parmet.”

  “I described what happened, SP. Did you expect something else than the truth?” He used a casual tone as he saved an entry on his slate with a tap of the stylus, taking his time. He could analyze Duval’s reactions later.

  “This is an unusual situation for me and my staff. Our Overlord doesn’t like working with Autonomists.” A greasy smile slid across Duval’s face.

  Isrid nodded politely. “It’s unfortunate that your delinquents reared their ugly heads again. Weren’t you asked to take care of this isolationist problem a long time ago?”

  “We don’t refer to them as the ‘isolationist problem.’ ”

  “My apologies.” Isrid sounded unrepentant, while looking apologetic. Sending conflicting signals made the recipient uncomfortable. “You haven’t explained the purpose of this call.”

  “We thought it polite to warn you of an intelligence leak.” Duval’s smile moved askew. “The Directorate is running Kressida in G- 145—ah, I see you recognize the name. We think they’re turning someone in your area of the solar system, someone on your staff, or Ensign Walker’s.”

  “What’s your source?”

  “We’ve got a Directorate file that references the operation as being current, but no other details.”

  “Really? You’re sure . . . ?” Isrid showed his doubt that Duval could put his hands on actual Directorate files, although he wasn’t blindsided, not in the least. Dr. Istaga suspected such an initiative and was now evaluating loyalties. In fact, yesterday he’d given Isrid a list of personnel he thought were intelligence risks, having chinks in their loyalty or “issues rendering them susce
ptible to Autonomist manipulation.” These were valuable people, ones the Overlord couldn’t afford to lose, and ones who should be watched. Maria’s name was at the top of the list.

  Duval defended his statement. “My TSF intelligence staff is trustworthy. They claim it came from the Bright Crescent.”

  Isrid knew about the audit on the AFCAW cruiser. Duval was hinting he’d found a leak, possibly due to that audit, but why did he emphasize the trustworthiness of his Terran Space Force? “Ensign Walker appears to be doing well with station security.”

  “The TSF has its uses, but I wouldn’t be too dependent upon your ensign. Major Kedros is obviously running this Directorate op, but she’s integral to the Priamos R&D efforts, is she not? So the TSF won’t do anything about her, not openly.”

  “We’re watching Kedros.”

  “She’s probably behind the threats sent to you and your family.” Not trained in somaural projection, Duval couldn’t hide the faint downward waver of his gaze. He was lying. Of greater significance, he shouldn’t know about the threats.

  “Why would Kedros threaten me?” Isrid trolled for more information. Luckily, Duval couldn’t envision a world where Isrid had confronted Kedros, or believed her innocent.

  “Revenge, perhaps? For your offenses last year.” Duval cocked his head. “Vengeance can only be satisfied in one way, regardless of what the Autonomists say. That’s why Pax Minoica can’t last. And when it blows apart, only the nimble will survive.”

  “I appreciate the heads-up.” Isrid smiled politely. A warning, yes, but Duval wasn’t just passing it on; he was adding a threat. Isrid filed this away in his memory, as well as the hint that Duval knew how and why Kedros had signed over the G- 145 leases. Most intriguing, because this was a fact in pursuit of both relevance and context, was that Duval didn’t want the League in G- 145. His body language made that obvious. But why, when the League was benefiting from this research?

  After Isrid finished the call with the odious Duval, he checked with his personal security. Flynn had sent out his right-hand man, a husky no-neck sort named Zheng, who had been on Parmet’s security for years.

  “Yes, SP?” In the view port, Zheng looked up.

  “You said you traced the threats down to a specific port on the Pilgrimage?”

  “To a public kiosk, with no surveillance.” Zheng agreed with the rest of his security staff; Pilgrimage had too many places on their habitat that needed security upgrades, and he’d be happy to talk to them about it.

  “No way to figure out who sent the message?”

  “No, sir.” Zheng’s face held self-inflicted misery of failure. “And we’ve only got the two messages.”

  “But they definitely came from the Pilgrimage?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, here’s another twist. SP Duval knows about the threatening messages. He might have gotten the info through TSF, or not—can’t tell.” After relating the relevant information to Zheng, he called Maria.

  “I need you up here,” he said after she answered. His fingers flickered and added, Espionage.

  “Same old stuff?” Her fingers and wrist asked, Autonomist?

  “Not necessarily. I’m worried about Six, which is your specialty.” He remembered a night many years ago, when she’d asked to take the lead on coordinating surveillance on Overlord Six—the same person and staff as today—being the only Overlord still in power since the end of the war sixteen years ago. After all, I have a personal interest in how they allocate childbirth licenses. If I can get approval, I’ll transfer, she’d said, rubbing her long leg over his. At the time, he’d held her tight and immersed himself in the smell of her hair and the feel of her skin—knowing he’d never let her leave. He gave her the assignment and as it happened, she had less chance of having offspring in District Six than in Three.

  “I’ve been trying to stay in the scientific research biz.” Her smile was slightly sad.

  “This could shut down the ‘biz’ in G- 145. It’s that important.”

  “The Pytheas has docked. A mass posting came out, saying the Minoans are sponsoring its next mission to the Builders’ solar system. They’re taking applications for crew. I can qualify for the copilot and sensors position.” She looked stubborn and signed in Martian patois, Chance of a lifetime.

  She’d named her “price” for coming back to staff work. He watched carefully, knowing her skills with somaural projection. Maria had worked for him since the end of the war and he’d never heard her talk about such a goal. However, he’d rather have her up on the station near him, than down on Priamos with Sergeant Pike and his AFCAW commandos. She’d be closer to Major Kedros, who certainly was running the Kressida op, but he knew how much bad blood came between those two women. Besides, Maria would be near two former lovers, him and Sabina, and that’d make her less of a “loyalty risk.”

  “I suppose we could make that happen,” he said slowly. “What about your medical records? Will they be a problem?”

  Her laugh sounded brittle. “They’ll never see them. I’ll be up on-station in four or five hours, SP.”

  Ariane looked about Dr. Lee’s lab, noting the prominent birthing chambers bolted to the bulkhead, trying to ignore the question the older woman had asked. Unfortunately, Dr. Lee wasn’t so easily put off.

  “You do realize you’re being used, don’t you?” Lee asked again. “The Minoans are trying to manipulate you.”

  Ariane sighed, staring at the shiny chambers. They had placards covered with legible names, date of fertilization, and gender. She read them in turn: Nigel, Peter, and Charlotte Anne, all of whom would soon be a month into their development. Finally, she said, “Does it really matter?”

  Dr. Lee, frail, yet oozing forceful opinion, came to stand beside her. “Of course it matters,” she said. She gestured toward the end chamber that held Charlotte Anne. “Abram said he needed sons, so I purposely misinterpreted his orders when I realized one fetus would be female. Unfortunately, I didn’t know Abram’s men considered him childless, or that they often murder first-born females. In the end, my assistant Allison paid for my selfish decision with her life.”

  “So I’m making a selfish decision. Now who’s trying to manipulate me?” She turned to look at the doctor, thin and graceful, but with paper-thin skin and puffy white hair that showed her true age.

  Lee only raised an eyebrow.

  “Using hindsight, would you change your decision?” Ariane asked, pointing toward Charlotte Anne.

  “Hindsight doesn’t help.” Dr. Lee smiled sadly. “An idealistic person might believe that dice are rolling randomly in their heads, so if they have a chance to make a decision again, they might go a different route. A practical individual, like me, would say I would never make a different decision, given my knowledge and emotions at the time.”

  “You sound pretty confident of that. What if you can manage to be less cautious, more perceptive, or whatever?”

  “How much more or less, of anything, would be required to change your decisions? Can you honestly expect things to be different if your basic nature doesn’t change?” The older woman’s words were clipped.

  Her words also caused disturbing thoughts. Ariane had already run her second life off the rails, but what could she have done differently? According to Lee, she’d take the same route, in every time and in every world. Of course, Lee was speaking rhetorically. She didn’t know the woman standing next to her had really been given a second life, another identity, and a chance to start over.

  Breaking the silence, Lee said quietly, “I’m guessing hindsight won’t give you any clarity.”

  Ariane took a deep breath. “I know the Minoans are manipulating me, leveraging my guilt. They’re giving me a chance at reparation and redemption.”

  “What—” Dr. Lee seemed taken aback. Whatever she expected, it wasn’t this. “What could you have possibly done?”

  “You don’t know my past, Doctor.” Ariane’s voice was level and unyielding. “Y
ou’ve signed nondisclosure agreements, you know there’s secrets here. Many of them have to do with me, and why the Minoans chose me. You’re going to notice my biochemistry and cellular metabolism are enhanced, although I can’t tell you why.”

  Lee’s jaw went slack. Then she closed her mouth with a snap and her dark eyes glinted. “That’ll teach me to stick my nose into somebody else’s psyche.” She straightened her lab coat with a snort and turned toward her lab equipment, beckoning Ariane to follow. “I totally missed the mark with you. Let’s get to work. I’ll need fluid and tissue samples from you.”

  Ariane sat on a stool beside her and couldn’t contain her curiosity. “How did you miss the mark?”

  “I’m a bit embarrassed.” Lee’s eyes slid sideways to look at her. “I thought you were doing this for Matt. I’ll need a good amount of blood, so stick out your arm.”

  “Really? But, why—when Matt’s so devoted to Diana?” She thoughtfully watched the doctor check her implant, before using it to sample blood.

  “Yes. Well.” Lee looked away and changed the subject. “I’ll also take tissue samples, about biopsy size. These tests are similar to evaluating which of these tissue types, if artificially propagated, your body would accept in a graft or transplant.”

  “The military already did those tests; I can accept most of my vat-grown tissues.”

  “But they weren’t checking to see if you could accept one of these.” Dr. Lee leaned across the lab bench to tap a command on what looked like an oven or incubator, and a display of the interior incubation chamber appeared on the side.

  Ariane gulped. “That’s what they call implants?”

  The display showed a flat nutrient dish, with a length scale beside it. Inside the dish lay what first looked like two thin columns of muscle tissue approximately thirty centimeters long, which made them about as long as her forearm. The tissue columns narrowed to filaments at the ends, so they looked like complete muscles from—well, from a human, except the fluorescent yellow streaks and olive green blotches indicated the contrary. The yellow streaks bunched and twisted at two distinct bulges midway on each length of tissue. But the worst, most gruesome aspect that made her brain gibber was that they moved, undulating slowly in the thick nutrient broth, leaving rippled impressions that slowly faded as the liquid leveled.