“We’re all grateful you got rid of the weapon before it did much damage.” Justin hadn’t noticed her stiffness, and his voice was warm. Friendly. What would he think of her if he knew her
real
history? Justin’s gaze sharpened, focusing on the top of the list displayed on the bulkhead next to the shrine. “I always stop here, for Dan’s sake.”
She nodded, and her relief at the change of topic almost made her dizzy. The top name on the list was Daniel Pilgrimage. Dan had worked beside Justin on the control deck, and he’d been the first to die when Abram arrived.
Justin looked down at his hands, which he tensely kneaded. “My shirt was covered with his blood. I looked at it for days, building up rage. I thought it would dishonor him if I threw the shirt in the disposal. This morning, I realized I could honor him, yet lose the rage, so I threw the bloody thing away.”
Her throat was so tight, she could barely swallow. “I can’t,” she finally said.
“Can’t what?”
“Lose the rage. I hate the monster that did this.” Her hand swept through the air, motioning toward the damaged shrine. “I’m
glad
he’s gone, and I hope the rest of those isolationist bastards are put away for as long as possible.”
“You’ll get your wish.” The corners of Justin’s mouth quirked upward. “The Terran State Prince has already boarded and your senator arrives tomorrow, so the Tribunal—whatever it’s called—can start.”
“The Interstellar Criminal Tribunal,” she said hollowly.
“Yeah, for war criminals.”
“They’re being tried for
crimes against humanity
, not as war criminals. They weren’t part of an armed conflict between states.” The difference was important, but not to the ghosts shrieking in her head. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to blur the image of Terran agent Nathanial Wolf Kim as he tortured her, saying, “Four billion people gone. Admit it—you’re a war criminal.”
She didn’t know how much of the war Justin remembered, since he had been born shortly before the generational ship
Pilgrimage III
embarked on the G- 145 mission twenty-six years ago. He wasn’t used to military uniforms, however, and as her hands dropped into her lap again, he gestured at her attire. “I almost didn’t recognize you from the back.”
She wasn’t wearing her normal crew coveralls with the Aether Exploration logo, because she was still on active duty. Her black uniform with light blue trim was crisp and clean, appropriate for a golem from the Directorate of Intelligence, under the Armed Forces of the Consortium of Autonomist Worlds. She ran her fingers through her dark hair so it curled under at the ends, shortened to collar length to meet AFCAW uniform regulations.
Justin went quiet and made the universal gesture for wait-I’m-taking-a-priority-call. He listened while his finger drifted to press behind his jawbone, acknowledging the call.
“Needed on control deck?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He gripped her forearm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Crèche-get, those born and raised on generational ships, tended to be sentimental and demonstrative, so she resisted the urge to pull away. “I know you feel guilty,” he added.
“Excuse me?” The words came out sharper than she intended.
“You just couldn’t save everyone, Ariane. It’s time to forgive yourself.”
“Oh, so
that’s
my problem.” She smiled, hoping she looked natural. “Thanks for the amateur psych eval.”
“Hey, I just saved you a trip to Mental Health.” He winked as he stood. She watched him hurry down the wide aisle. He took care to step down one side, away from the still figure of Warrior Commander seated in the exact middle of the last bench on the left.
After Justin left, her gaze lingered a last time on the list. Her mouth hardened as she considered the two latest entries. State Prince Hauser hadn’t been able to recover from a rare reaction to the prophylactic radiation drugs. More tragic, Major Phillips of the Terran Space Forces had gone beyond the radiation exposure point of no return while retrieving victims who had been spaced alive, in environmental suits, by Abram’s men. The fatalities continued long after Abram’s defeat and death.
This list didn’t include the other victims, such as AFCAW Master Sergeant Alexander Joyce, who had barely lived through face-to-face combat with Abram; or Danielle, the pilot raped by Abram’s nephew Emery.
Yet more justification for leaving Emery to die in N-space. I’m not sorry I did that
. N-space, or nous-space-time transit, was the only way to traverse space in faster-than-light fashion, but entering it without having a buoy lock meant the ship was lost forever. The passengers would be insane after a couple of hours without D-tranny in their bloodstream. Although that might have been too good for Emery, by only adding disassociative psychosis to his sadistic sociopathy. The lack of delta tranquilizer, however, wasn’t what mattered most; going into N-space without locking onto a buoy meant you could never return to real-space.
Standing, she smoothed her black uniform. Her shiny boots made light taps on the deck as she walked down the aisle. She paused before passing the dark figure with tall horns that was sitting quietly. She sighed. This seemed too much to ask of her, considering her pay grade. At least the warrior didn’t have a guardian escort, like a red- robed emissary Minoan, or she’d be leading around a whole parade of aliens. She made a tight gesture toward the hatchway. “Are you ready, Warrior Commander? Another day, another drachma, as we say.”
Warrior Commander’s horns dipped slowly in a nod and she moved on, knowing she’d get no other response. She no longer watched the tall figure in billowing robes rise and mysteriously fit within the
Pilgrimage
’s decks.
Why are you following me?
The unanswered question stoked her glowing ire and resentment. Her pace was solid, with purposeful cadence, as she strode through a spoke hall toward her destination: the brig.
“Sorry, Matt. There’s nothing I can do.” In the view port, Carmen’s head bobbed on her treadmill at Athens Point, more than seven hundred light-years away from G-145. “I can’t find anyone with enough balls to sign off on extending your line of credit.”
“But I have a low risk rating.” This situation seemed entirely illogical to Matthew Journey, majority owner of Aether Exploration. Why should the rules change so suddenly?
“I know. It’s just that G- 145 is anathema to the financial sector right now.”
“Government contracts are still funded,” Matt said, “and the Terran League is moving money for their contractors.”
“From what I hear, they’re stretched to cover the rise in hazard pay that contractors demand.” Carmen stopped bouncing and moved to pick up a towel, the cam-eye panning and widening the view. She dabbed at the sweat between her breasts, her athletic cleavage separated and firmed by space-age materials in her bra as well as her body.
“But nothing has changed. The Builders’ ruins Ari and I discovered are an engineer’s wet dream, with the possibility of re-creating those materials. There’s an inactive buoy—a potential gateway to Gaia knows how many worlds. G-145 has the same resources it had a month ago.”
“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.