Vigilante

by Laura E. Reeve

  “The Directorate of Intelligence doesn’t perform state assassinations,” Joyce said stiffly.

  “Yeah. Sure. I guess I don’t need to know the specifics.” Matt watched the status displays on the wall. He had plenty to do before disconnection: check cargo, equipment, seal inspections, etc. He didn’t have time to negotiate with Joyce.

  “We can carry you, but it’ll cost six thousand.” Matt faced Joyce, squarely looking him in the eyes. This price was twice the HKD, or Hellas Kilodrachmas, that the Venture’s Way would charge.

  “That’s highway robbery, Mr. Journey.”

  “The highway’s not established yet,” Matt said. “New space is expensive and I’m risking our lives, as well as my ship, by going beyond my safety margins. If I were docking at an established habitat, I’d be fined.”

  Joyce shrugged. He keyed his implant and pointed to a wall to display a transaction screen. After speaking his phrase for voiceprint analysis, he transferred funds into Matt’s account.

  I suppose, as a good Consortium citizen, I should ask where those funds are coming from—but right now, I don’t care. Matt pointed at the end of the corridor. “You’ll web into Ari’s bunk for the drop.”

  “Yes, sir.” Joyce sauntered down the corridor to crew quarters, whistling a tune as he went.

  Matt tried to unclench his jaw as he turned his attention back to his mission and his ship. While he had faith in Aether’s Touch and he could use another six thousand HKD, another person on this journey meant they’d be royally fucked if something went wrong.

  CHAPTER 3

  Crystal has preserved the Minoan surgical hits de stroying Qesan Douchet’s hardened bunkers, as well

  as the finality of genetically targeted bioweapons that

  we still don’t understand. Minoan “justice” wiped out

  Douchet’s tribal gene sets, forever. Today, anyone of

  Terran Franko-Arabian descent should have his or her

  DNA analyzed before visiting New Sousse, just in case.

  Remember, the tribe also had roots in Terra’s French

  Brazilian colonies. . . .

  —Interview with Hellas Prime’s Senator Raulini, 2091.138.15.00 UT, indexed by Heraclitus 11, Democritus 9 under Conflict, Cause and Effect Imperatives

  Aether’s Touch was quiet. The men were safely webbed into their bunks, sleeping sweetly under D-tranny and no longer sniping at each other.The ship’s systems, as well as the pesky AI, were shut down. The ship seemed to be holding its breath; with no thrusters or engines operating, there were hardly any sounds. Ariane sighed in contentment.

  Their separation from Athens Point had been flawless. Their boost away from the habitat was enjoyable until Joyce and Matt brought their male egos onto the control deck. There just wasn’t room enough for a working pilot as well.

  “Don’t make me stop this boost,” she warned them when the verbal sparring pushed her over the edge. “I’ll space the both of you if you don’t shut up.”

  Their expressions might have been comical if she hadn’t been serious: Preparing for an N-space drop was risky business. They meekly left the control deck for crew quarters so she could have her peace.

  Her checklists required her to physically verify the licensing crystal in the ship’s referential engine. The step was only a regulatory requirement and the only way to know she skipped it was to look at her logs, but she always took the time to climb down to the bulge. The side trip stretched her legs and calmed her predrop jitters.

  The bulge held the Penrose Fold referential engine away from the ship’s main footprint and when viewed from the outside, looked like a tumor eating away at the forward belly of the ship. An N-space-capable ship like Aether’s Touch couldn’t pretend to look aerodynamic, but then, that wasn’t its function.

  She moved toward the engine that rose out of the “floor” she stepped on, thanks to her sticky ship-soles as well as the gravity generator she’d left operating until the last possible moment. The engine’s shape and the seams of its shielding always made it look as if it were smiling at her. She ran her hands over the cold shielding, marveling at humankind’s greatest accomplishment prior to contact with the Minoans. Humankind learned how to enter N-space via the Penrose Fold—they’d never understood how to get back from N-space, until the Minoans provided the solution with their network of time buoys, the design of which was still a mystery.

  A mystery we might solve in G-145, if the artifact we found there is a non-Minoan version of a time buoy. She pushed in the crystal and entered the acknowledgment number displayed across the engine’s curved surface into her slate for the logs.

  Before she left, she glanced up at the small figure of St. Darius that Matt had attached to the deck overhead. Matt had been raised to set great store in Darius as the patron saint and protector of space travelers and explorers. Ariane, on the other hand, raised in Gaian fundamentalist tradition on a planet, considered Darius only an altruistic and historically significant figure, but it didn’t hurt to pay her respects. She nodded to the figure and whispered a quick prayer to Gaia before turning away.

  Back on the control deck, she webbed herself in and turned off the gravity generator. She double-checked the D-tranny dosages for Joyce and Matt. After shutting down the real-space navigation system, she pressed an ampoule of cognitive dissonance enhancer against her implant. She watched the ampoule drain and the implant start dispensing the protective drug for piloting N-space into her bloodstream. This drug was nicknamed clash, and steering through N-space without it was equivalent to committing yourself to the nearest psych ward for disassociative-based insanity. She had done one emergency drop without preparation, having to get her drugs dispensed while in N-space. She’d kept her sanity—although she supposed there were some who questioned that—but ended up hospitalized, taking intravenous nutrition for a couple days before she could keep her food down. Nothing would make me go through that experience again.

  Clash, besides lowering some sort of quantum threshold within her neural synapses, made her edgy and gave her headaches. This effect had become worse after AFCAW meddled with her biochemistry. She now needed high dosages, so much higher than needed by normal human physiology that only AFCAW physicians evaluated her and prescribed her N-space dosages.

  However, she shouldn’t complain: She’d volunteered for the experimental rejuv and now she had a body that could recover from almost any amount of alcohol and drugs. Of course, she still suffered from overindulgence, like anyone else. She just had a hell of a recovery rate. Smiling wryly, she searched in her chest pocket for the street smooth that she usually used to cut the edge from the clash. Smooth was legal but wasn’t an approved supplement for use in N-space.

  She paused, her hand frozen. Last time the ship came back from G-145, she’d risked getting a fine, perhaps even having her license suspended, by the stuffy Athens Point officials. But no one in new space even cares, her mind countered. However, regulations or the risks of fines hadn’t stopped her hand, but rather words she’d heard from Tafani. Major Kedros, treating your body like a cocktail plainly proves your problem. When she countered with examples of self-medication, he answered, Don’t you think that people who medicate themselves might also suffer from substance abuse? She hadn’t known what to think, except that she felt trapped. She had desperately hoped Tafani would answer questions, not propose more.

  Fuck you, Tafani—I won’t let you sit in my mind and mess me up. The savage spike of anger she felt surprised her, even frightened her with its intensity. She put the smooth tablet on her tongue and let it dissolve as she purged her emotions with deep breaths through her nose.

  After she reconfigured her console, shut down everything that ran on Neumann processors, and picked up her manual checklist, she felt better. She piloted N-space for a living and she was damn good at it, regardless of the undermining echoes of Tafani in her head. With a tap of her finger, she started the Penrose Fold referential engine. She watched it go through in
itialization, safety checks, and the determination that there were no operating thrusters and no N-space connection through a gravity generator. It proclaimed itself happy with a green status light.

  On cue, the twitching heartbeat signal displayed on her console, showing that she’d locked on to the Hellas inner-system time buoy. She had put the ship in the outgoing corridor, although the corridor was merely a convention used to manage traffic. Most important, Aether’s Touch was far from the strictly defined incoming-traffic channel. Regardless of how ships dropped out of real-space, the buoys sequenced and precisely positioned the ships in the incoming channel, which was one of those mysterious safety features designed into the Minoan time buoy network.

  Their keys were dialed in and she waited for a response from the buoy. Not only did the time buoy network have to program and calculate their nous-transit, but the Pilgrimage generational ship also had to approve her keys because their destination buoy wasn’t “open.” A moment passed before the display told her that they’d arrive in G-145 in eight hours and forty-nine minutes, using Universal Time. The transit estimate was generally accurate, although the pilot wouldn’t feel the passage of time correctly. Eight hours could feel like eight minutes or eighty hours—there was no way she could influence her experience, one way or the other.

  She tilted her seat back and put on a visor that was an imitation of v-play equipment, although it only displayed the unprocessed external cam-eye circuits. Her webbing wiggled snug as she adjusted her visor and turned it on. She couldn’t see the dark inner-system buoy, but she could see whatever the abbreviated spectrum of visible light could show her around Aether’s Touch. Her selected outgoing corridor was crowded, which wasn’t surprising. Hellas was a busy system and these ships could be bound for anywhere.

  A large commercial freighter was the closest ship in her starboard view and as she watched, the bulbous area around their referential engine grew bright and the ship winked out with a flare, dropping into N-space. She tsk-tsked quietly with her tongue; the flash of photons as the ship transitioned indicated their engine wasn’t tuned correctly and they were wasting energy generating the Penrose Fold.

  She put one hand on the N-space control and sent the drop command to the referential engine. Her transition didn’t cause a flare, and the Aether’s Touch dropped into N-space as smoothly as a pearl slipping into a pool of oil.

  Tahir Dominique Rouxe stowed his bags and sat down on his bunk, a move that didn’t even require turning because his quarters were so small. He continued to hope that this was an exercise, exactly like J-132.

  “This is the captain—there have been changes.” The announcement played through all the nodes in the ship and Tahir’s stomach clenched at the sound of stress in the man’s voice. The captain’s throat sounded tight. “The Venture’s Way has changed its registered name to Father’s Wrath. Repeat, we are now Father’s Wrath. In addition, our departure for G-145 has been rescheduled. We’re departing earlier, at twenty thirty. Unofficial guests should disembark at this time. Repeat, we—”

  “Audio off,” Tahir said.

  It’s started. This should be a joyous occasion, the fulfillment of his father’s plans, the true implementation of Qesan’s Cause. So why did he feel so much dread and foreboding? He didn’t know how long he sat staring at his hands, the hands with the scientific precision that Father needed, but the hands Father hated. His father’s hatred wasn’t limited to his hands but concerned Tahir’s very existence, and for good reason. Because of a Minoan attack upon their settlement, Tahir didn’t carry his father’s genetic profile. When Tahir underwent paternity testing as an infant, Father’s probability of paternity had been equivalent to any randomly selected man. As tradition demanded, Tahir’s mother had been tortured into idiocy before the real cause was uncovered, giving Father leave to blame his mother’s condition on the Minoans also. When the men in the thirty-thousand-strong enclave learned they were all sterile after the Minoan attack, Father hadn’t celebrated the exception of Tahir’s birth. After all, Tahir didn’t have the right genes.

  The hatch to his quarters squealed as it opened and Tahir clenched his fists as he rose to face Abram Hadrian Rouxe, the man he was only allowed to call Father inside his own mind. Ironically, the man whose name derived from “father of multitudes” could no longer reproduce, which fed the hatred and obsession that Abram lived and breathed.

  “Why G-145?” Tahir asked.

  Abram’s exact combination of alleles didn’t match Tahir’s, but they still looked very much alike. They both had medium builds and shocks of thick, straight dark hair over thin faces with natural scowls. After that, their differences were minor and one had to peer closely to see that Tahir’s eyes were deep green rather than almost black. He also didn’t have Abram’s pitted leathery skin, evidence of his father’s hard life.

  “The resources in G-145 fulfill our objectives. Are you taking issue with my choice?”

  “We’re looking for a home where we can live in peace, but G-145 doesn’t have a hospitable body of any sort, planet or moon. The last solar system did.” Tahir kept his tone mild.

  “That was a dry run. You didn’t expect me to move before I got the Ura-Guinn data, did you? I had to have proof that a star of this type could survive a TD detonation, while still destroying the buoy.” Abram looked over his shoulder. “Has Emery checked in yet?”

  “E-130 is opening in two years with a habitable planet. Wouldn’t the Cause be served better by that system?” Tahir asked.

  The schedules of the generational ship lines were well-known and Tahir was comparing mission G-145, undertaken by the Pilgrimage III, to mission E-130, started by the Campaign II thirty-seven years ago and due to open in two years. Pre-Pax Minoica generational crews were opening both solar systems, which was one of Abram’s criteria for his targets.

  “There are issues with E-130. This system is our best bet.” Abram made a gesture that signaled the end of the conversation, at least for him. “Is Emery delayed?”

  “I thought the Cause was about living free from oppression and finding a safe haven. G-145 doesn’t have the natural resources. . . .” His voice trailed away. Years of dealing with outsiders’ ideas, yet always fearing his father’s next surprise visit, left Tahir circumspect when stating his thoughts. Abram turned cold, dark eyes on him and he tried to keep from flinching.

  “If you question my decision, then you doubt my devotion to the Cause.”

  “No, Fa—Abram, I don’t.” Regrettably, Tahir did have doubts, but not about Abram’s devotion. He wondered how his father had financed everything. Where had the money come from? Were there hidden benefactors? After Abram had paid him one of those surprise visits on Mars, he’d followed his father and seen him meeting with someone. It took more years to find the identity of that someone, who turned out to be an obscure and anonymous aide who worked on an Overlord’s staff. Since that time, Tahir had begun to wonder whether Abram’s plans, and choices, were as independent as he maintained. Yes, Father, I have plenty of doubts.

  When Abram didn’t speak, Tahir added carefully, “It’s just that G-145 seems an unlikely target for the Cause, and I was hoping you’d illuminate me.”

  “If you were truly the son of my loins, then you’d trust me. You’d have no questions, no need for illumination.” Abram’s voice was dangerously flat.

  “I am your son, and perhaps my opinion doesn’t matter to you.” Tahir looked away to avoid the confirmation in Abram’s eyes. “But, if I’m confused about our objectives, what about the others? Those who follow you because you’ve sold them on the chance to make a better world without the Consortium, the League, or the Minoans?”

  Abram shrugged. “They are only sheep that require a mission, and any mission will do.”

  “And sheep can be sacrificed.” The voice came from Emery, who appeared next to Abram with a fierce grin on his face. “Particularly if they’re outsiders.”

  “Emery!” Abram almost smiled as he embraced
the youngest nephew of Qesan Douchet.

  Unnoticed, Tahir threw himself on his bunk as Emery, his senior by one year, and Abram slapped each other on the back. He felt twinges of jealousy interspersed with loathing as he watched Emery, whom Abram called the son of his spirit. Tahir was thirty years old, yet he evidently still craved his father’s praise and attention. He wanted to shout that this mission would be impossible without his “outside” life and education. After all, he had risked imprisonment—but since he’d served his purpose and provided the tools necessary for Abram’s plans, he was no longer of interest.

  “Do we have to take everybody to G-145?” asked Chander, standing in front of Isrid’s desk.

  “We’re leaving your two older sisters, plus the entire household, tutorial, and security staff on Mars. I wouldn’t agree that everybody is coming along.”

  Terran State Prince Isrid Sun Parmet signed absolutely the last form he was going to look at before this trip. His promotion to Overlord Three’s Assistant for the Exterior had engendered hefty amounts of paperwork. He took a deep breath as he put down his newest slate, an accurate facsimile of the devices made in the Consortium, but not as robust.

  “That’s not what I mean. Does—” An announcement from the ship’s systems cut through the boy’s voice.

  “All passengers must take their delta-tranquilizer and web into bunks for safety.” The ship repeated this warning three times while Isrid watched his son, eleven years old and carrying the significant name of Chander Sky Parmet, squirm with frustration.

  “Have you been doing your somaural exercises?” Isrid asked sharply before the boy said anything more.

  “Yes.” Chander’s face turned even more sullen and he looked down at his feet.

  “Then use them. I want objectivity. If you have to add emotion, do it somaurally.”