An hour later, Richard put down his book, gave a small shake of his head, wordlessly rose and went back to his quarters. A few minutes after, Marissa yawned and said, “I’ve had enough. I’m going to bed.”
Jeffrey Billings also rose to his feet. “Thank you all,” he said. “This was fun.” He gave Gloriosa a wan grin and left without another word, leaving silence in his wake.
Gloriosa seemed deflated. She frowned and rose and went into her room, closing the door.
Rosanna looked at Frankie, who shook her head.
Curly shrugged and glanced at Matthew. “You want to keep playing?”
“Nope. Somehow, the charge has gone out of the evening.”
Curly sighed and nodded toward Rosanna. The two of them rose and left.
“That could have gone better,” Frankie said.
“It’s nobody’s fault,” Michael said. “He’s just not that into her.”
“No,” Frankie said. “No, he’s not.”
The next evening, Matthew Oliver made it a point to run across Jeffrey Billings at a small bar on the main avenue. Billings was sitting by himself with a half-full bottle and a half-empty glass, looking morose. Matthew didn’t ask for permission. He sat down across the table and grinned at the other man.
Billings glanced at him, shrugged and sipped his drink.
“What is that?” Matthew asked.
“Bourbon.”
“Bourbon,” Matthew said. “I’ve heard of bourbon. Is it any good?”
“It serves the purpose.” Billings sighed.
“So,” Matthew said. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Matthew Oliver’s father had risen to his current august rank through intelligence, strength, good judgment and at least a little bit of luck. Matthew had watched Douglas Oliver operate for his entire life. He had always paid attention and he knew how to play the game.
Before taking a position with Michael Glover, Matthew and his sister had sat down for a frank discussion with the old man. Douglas Oliver had told them everything he knew about Michael Glover. The two men, in some warped sense, knew each other well. Douglas Oliver possessed all the memories of Lord Damien Oliveros, his distant ancestor and the first Governor-General of Illyria. Damien Oliveros and Michael Glover had been friends and their careers had followed a similar trajectory.
Still, watching Glover operate was a revelation. His style resembled their father’s, but just a bit more subtle, which made sense, since Douglas Oliver was a well-known and very important man, while most of Michael Glover’s career lay two thousand years in the past. Michael Glover had also been a very important man, but nobody knew it.
He tended toward logic and made reasoned arguments. He smiled a lot, listened to his people and treated them with respect. Still, when he gave a command, he expected it to be obeyed, and everybody understood that the conversation was over.
Matthew and Marissa had wanted to run away from home and Michael Glover had given them the opportunity to do so. Thankfully, their parents had approved, even encouraged the move. Still, they remained the children of a man who was beginning to make a name for himself on an even larger stage, now that Illyria had joined the Second Empire.
The itch had been scratched, Matthew thought. He and his sister had had their fun and other challenges beckoned. It was time to think about returning home. Until they did, however, they remained loyal members of Gehenna’s crew.
Jeffrey Billings sighed. “I was afraid of this.”
Matthew looked at him.
Billings sighed again. He listed a bit in his seat and his eyes looked vacant. Matthew wondered how much he had already drunk.
“This is about Glory, isn’t it?”
Matthew grinned. “Yes,” he said. “Interesting woman, isn’t she?”
Billings winced. “I knew it was a mistake.”
“Then why did you do it?”
Billings peered at him. “You know how sometimes, you see someone, and you can’t take your eyes away? She was sitting there with her two friends. Three beautiful women, but Glory…she was something else…like a porcelain doll. I couldn’t take my eyes away.”
“You already said that.”
Billings puffed up his cheeks and nodded. “I knew it was a mistake,” he said again.
Matthew crooked a finger at a waiter and pointed down at the bottle. The waiter grinned and brought over a second glass. Matthew poured the glass half-full and sipped. He grimaced. “In what way was it a mistake?”
Billings stared into his glass as if searching for something. “Basically,” he finally said, “I find her outlook on life to be disturbing.”
“How so?”
Billings sighed. “I made a remark that my mother’s birthday was coming up and I needed to buy her a present. Gloriosa very matter-of-factly said that she didn’t have a mother because the owners had slaughtered her family.”
“The owners did slaughter her family.”
“I know,” Billings said, “and I don’t hold it against her. How could I? That’s not the point. The point is that her response was…jarring. Our frame of reference is so different that talking to her about almost anything turns into a complete dead end.”
Matthew frowned. “Give me another example.”
“Okay. We were doing a VR, some routine action-adventure thing about the early discovery of the alien artifacts on Ganymede. I was one of the crew. Glory was the second officer. After it was over, she said that her character looked a lot like a slave named F-4 who Esau Kane had crushed to death as a lesson in disobedience to the rest of the household. It took F-4 five hours to die and the rest of them had to stand there and watch the whole thing.”
“Well, that’s depressing,” Matthew said.
Billings shrugged. “It’s all like that. I know she’s had a tough time of it, but it’s reached the point where I can barely stand to talk to her. God only knows what she’ll say.”
Young, good-looking, rich, and the son of the most important man in his world, Matthew Oliver had never had trouble attracting women. He knew that he was no expert when it came to relationships and this conversation was rapidly getting out of his depth. He scratched his head. “Have you tried talking to her? About your concerns, I mean.”
“It makes it worse. It’s not that she gets angry. She doesn’t even argue. She clams up. I gather that in her experience, arguing with men was a very bad idea.”
Matthew frowned. “I guess F-4 can attest to that.”
Billings nodded. “You bet.” He peered owlishly into his glass. “You want some more?”
Matthew held out his glass and Billings carefully filled it half-way. Both men fell silent, brooding on the incomprehensible ways of women.
“How about the sex?” Matthew said.
Billings stared at him. “How about it?”
“No problems there?”
“No,” Billings said. “No problems there. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“We all like Gloriosa,” Matthew said. “She’s spunky.”
“I like her, too.” Billings sighed. “It’s just reached the point that I can’t stand being around her.” He frowned at Matthew. “Why don’t you give her a try?”
Matthew shook his head. “Too small for me. I like them big.”
“How about your sister? She likes women.”
“My sister is currently seeing one of your fellow officers. The redheaded ensign, Emily Frazier.”
“Frazier?” Billings blinked his eyes. “I didn’t know that. I thought Frazier liked guys.”
“Apparently, she likes girls too.”
Billings shrugged. He looked at Matthew. “Anything else?”
“No.” Matthew rose to his feet and shook his head. “I wish I had some advice for you, but I’ve got nothing to contribute. You and Gloriosa are just going to have to muddle through on your own. Or not.
“Anyway, good luck,” Matthew said, “and thanks for the bourbon.”
Chapter 19
Michael had just emerged from a lift after observing a minor war-game with Dustin Nye on the ship’s third level when a tall, well-built young man in an ensign’s uniform gave him an apologetic smile, stepped forward from a crowd of pedestrians and tried to plant a knife in his chest.
Time slowed. Michael slid to the side. The knife opened a small slice across his shirt, scratched him over the lower ribs. It burned, far more than it should. Michael ignored it, turned, trapped his attacker’s arm against his raised knee and twisted. The attacker cried out as his elbow joint dislocated. The knife clattered to the deck.
Michael turned, thrust out a hip and flipped the guy over. He fell on his back and lay there, dazed and wheezing. The navigational grid in Michael’s retina took note of every person in the hallway, who they were, where they stood, what they were doing. They all stood frozen.
“Romulus,” Michael said to the air.
Romulus voice echoed from an overhead speaker. “Security will be on hand within ten seconds.”
Michael looked down on the attacker. Pale skin, brown hair, nothing distinctive. He clutched his elbow and moaned.
“Don’t get up,” Michael said.
The attacker continued to moan and didn’t acknowledge Michael’s words.
A few seconds later, the corridor swarmed with Security. Most of them fanned out, pushing back the crowd. Four walked up, lifted the attacker to his feet and hustled him away.
One of them reached for the knife.
“Be careful with that. It’s poisoned.”
The guard looked at him, nodded and carefully picked up the knife by its handle.
Michael’s side felt numb but his enhanced metabolism had already neutralized most of the poison on the blade. The wound was otherwise skin deep.
The lift opened. Frankie came rushing out. “Are you hurt?”
“Nothing major.”
Frankie looked at the bloody knife, then at the wound in Michael’s side. “You are hurt!”
He smiled. “Reminds me of the old days. Nobody’s tried to assassinate me in over two thousand years.” His smile grew wider. “Well, not seriously tried. Come on,” he said. “Let’s see who this jackass is.”
“Officially, his name is Aaron McDonald,” Anson said.
“Officially?”
Romulus’ disembodied voice came from the speaker. “There is a discrepancy in the records. The retinal scans from five years ago don’t match the more current ones.”
Michael frowned. “Could he have had his eyes replaced?”
“The records claim that he did. He was supposedly involved in an industrial accident and suffered serious burns on his face, rendering him nearly blind. According to the records, his eyes were too damaged to be salvaged. They were removed and replaced.”
“So, where’s the discrepancy?”
“Modern surgery leaves no visible scars, but there are always microscopic scars. He has none. These would appear to be his original eyes. The record is false.”
‘Aaron McDonald’ sat in a chair, his arms and legs in restraints, an induction helmet on his head. Occasionally, his lips moved, as he responded to the questions that Romulus fed into his brain.
“So, who is he?” Michael said.
“He says he’s Aaron McDonald,” Romulus said.
“And?”
“So far as he knows—or as far as we can tell—he’s telling the truth.”
Michael blinked. “Why did he try to stab me?”
“So far as he knows, he didn’t try to stab you. He has no memory at all of trying to stab you. He is completely bewildered.”
This was unexpected. Michael had dealt with spies, traitors, agents, double-agents and turncoats many times in his long career. He had never come across one who literally did not know what he was doing.
“You’re saying that he actually believes he’s a loyal member of the crew.”
“Yes,” Romulus replied.
The deepest of deep agents had programmed sub-personas that possessed no knowledge whatsoever of each other. A persona could be released by a code, a trigger word or merely by circumstance. The persona would emerge, do what its programming demanded and retreat back into the subconscious.
If there was one such agent, there might well be others. There probably were, in fact. Routine scanning wouldn’t detect them. Only a full-on identity probe could do it, and there was always the possibility that one of the personas was programmed to suicide in the event of such a probe.
“We need to get to the bottom of this,” Michael said. “One way or another.”
Anson nodded. “I agree.”
It might take as long as a day, even two, but at the end of that time, they would have access to every scintilla of information that the brain of this ‘Aaron McDonald’ possessed.
Or he would be dead.
The ship’s brain was capable of exploring trillions of alternatives and scenarios in mere seconds but the human brain was limited to the speed of electrochemical responses. It took thirty-six hours before Romulus could give a final report to Anson and Michael.
“Physically, Aaron McDonald is perfectly average: mixed race with a preponderance of Caucasian. His height, weight and general build all fall within the human norm. There is nothing about his appearance to attract attention or arouse suspicion.
“We have no idea who he is, because he has no idea who he is. We have identified six alternate personas. One is a command persona, with no memories and almost no self-awareness. The command persona is designed to respond to certain stimuli by bringing one of its sub-personas to the fore.
“All five sub-personas are meticulously detailed, with memories—real or implanted, I cannot yet tell—going back to earliest childhood. I suspect that the majority are real, however, since they differ on minor points only, and all of them share the exact same memories of the last three years.”
“And what are these personas programmed to do?”
“One of them, when activated, is programmed to assassinate you. One is to assassinate the Prime Minister of the Imperial Senate. One will assassinate the head of Naval Intelligence.”
“Arcturus,” Michael said.
“Yes.”
“The rest?”
“One is merely a disguise: an ensign in the Imperial Navy. This one goes about his business and knows nothing of any plot or conspiracy.”
“How about the last?”
“The last is assigned to blow up this ship.”
Blowing up Gehenna, Michael thought, was easier said than done.
“And how exactly is he supposed to accomplish that?”
“No plan is provided. He is to use his initiative.”
“And I don’t suppose he knows anybody else who might be similarly compromised?”
“No,” Romulus said. “He does not.”
“Any clues?” Michael said.
“Only one, and that one will not likely to help us. There is a very clear memory from earliest childhood. This memory is consistent across all five personas. He is young and his father is pointing at the night time sky, naming the stars, but the names of these stars correspond to no stars we know of. He tells of constellations that are listed in no chart or record, and their configuration corresponds to no pattern of stars in this galaxy.
“If they are real, they are from somewhere else, somewhere very far away.”
Everybody makes mistakes. All successful people, somewhere along the way, have gathered their courage, taken a leap into the unknown, tried and failed. Everyone has misjudged a situation. Everyone has allowed a moment’s inattention to distract them at a critical time. It’s only human…to be human.
Still, Arcturus’ quiet rebuke had been scathing, and Michael had had no choice but to sit there and take it. He had made a potentially fatal mistake, and the fact that Michael had been the one to come up with the idea for the device that Arlo Scott had created, and that Michael had actively encouraged its construction did little to console him. The damn thing might not
have worked. Gehenna’s entire crew had indeed been very, very lucky.
Michael did not enjoy depending upon luck. Where there was one traitor, there were likely to be others. Probably few, but even this was uncertain. Michael sighed. He disliked the idea of putting his entire crew under surveillance but he saw no real choice. They had no way of identifying another agent as deeply implanted as Aaron McDonald other than a full-on ID probe of every person on the ship, which would take months to accomplish and could not be done in secret.
“Watch everybody,” Michael said, “every minute of every day.”
Anson wrinkled his nose but made no comment.
“Of course,” Romulus said.
Two days later, a ship emerged from slip-space. It resembled the smaller ships that had attacked them at Akadius, the same lines, the same streamlined shape. The ship approached the Imperial beacon and sent an encrypted message. The beacon responded.
Gehenna lay back and observed. The smaller ship turned, aligned its nose toward the inner edge of the spiral arm and vanished into slip-space.
“Finally,” Michael said.
Chapter 20
If you had to pick a world to house a galaxy wide conspiracy, Croydon-4 made sense. It was the capital world of a seven-world mini-empire, that had not so long ago been a five-world mini-empire, with a large, stable population and an efficient industrial base. All seven worlds had once been members of the First Empire. All seven had been relatively self-sufficient and had come through the Interregnum with minimal social disruption. This little empire had been contacted by the Second Empire only once, nearly forty years before, but Gehenna’s database contained numerous references to private trade.
Gehenna hovered high above Croydon-4 and followed what had become the usual pattern, monitoring the system wide web, releasing drones and observing.
There was a lot to observe.
“They’re preparing for war,” Captain Thorenson said.
Commander Dumas looked grim. Henrik Anson scowled at the screen. The juniors, sitting around the virtual table, glanced worriedly at each other and kept their mouths shut.
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