“The TSF won’t violate a treaty unless they receive an order validated by the entire League membership.” Isrid made sure he sounded confident.
“What if Duval’s Overlord makes unilateral decisions?”
“Then I would need instructions from my Overlord.” Isrid could outbland Edones forever if he needed to. There was silence as they eyed each other.
“I’m disappointed, SP. You know how long it would take to get decisions from your Overlord’s staff. I had hoped you’d commit to protecting this expedition, and Pax Minoica.” Edones’s eyes became colder, which didn’t seem possible. “I think you’d better recall the TLS
Percival
from its patrol, because you might need it.”
“Until we speak again, Colonel.”
Which might be sooner than you think
, Isrid thought as he signed off.
Ensign Walker came back in, once he saw the call had finished. “Maria had to leave. They’re doing a test drop with the
Pytheas
.”
“Can the
Ming Adams
reach us, or the
Pytheas
, before the exploration drop?” That was the important thing to remember about space: It was
big
. Big enough to prevent surprise moves at sub-light speeds, that is.
Walker’s face paled as he realized what Isrid implied. “Depends upon what they’re doing at the
Pilgrimage
, and how much crew rest they take.”
“Call Officer Zheng. I want your people working tightly with my civilian security staff. I want redundant comm through command post, with twenty- four-hour coverage and a Feed into this room, starting now. I want scenarios plotted out with timelines, taking into account all players and pieces. I’m going to speak with SP Duval, but I don’t expect to get any answers.”
Ensign Walker nodded. He knew the players and pieces to plot: the
Pilgrimage
, Beta Priamos Station, the two buoys, TLS
Percival
,
Bright Crescent
,
Pytheas
,
Aether’s Touch
, TLS
Ming Adams
, and what should never be forgotten, the shadow-wrapped Minoan warship.
The N-space test drop went like a dream. Ariane had positioned the
Pytheas
in the farthest corridor from the Minoan buoy, only a couple of hours from Beta Priamos Station, at the exploration ship’s best speed—which was considerable. The
Pilgrimage
had issued them a key for the short N-space trip. As usual, the “briefest” estimated N-space transit from G-145 had no relationship to the “closest” solar system via real-space. The
Pytheas
dropped to Ephesus Point, a habitat in the quiet New Ionian solar system.
“That’s the easiest nous-transit I’ve ever made,” Ariane said, as soon as Maria opened her eyes. This was also a chance to test the systems that commanded the crew’s implants to put bright into their bloodstreams.
“Good—rail guns online!” Maria snapped, looking over her console and starting her checklists.
“Chaff ready to deploy. How’s our targeting systems?” asked Dalton from the seat behind them. He sounded like Brandon had, sixteen years ago.
Ariane sat quietly while Maria, Dalton, and the engineering team ran through checklists and scenarios designed to avoid whatever might come at them when they entered the Builders’ system. When they were done, she said, “I don’t see why I couldn’t operate one of the sensors or weapons.”
“Just because this drop was easy, doesn’t mean you’ll react the same to damaged N-space,” Dalton said absently, as he checked the status of all stations.
She turned and watched the back of Dalton’s head with a smile and a touch of melancholy, thinking of Brandon, until she realized Maria was watching
her
. She cleared her throat and displayed the results from her implant, saying, “I’ll have Dr. Lee look at this, but I think the enhanced clash worked quite well.”
“Certainly,” Maria murmured, turning back to her console.
The shakedown of drop procedures went well. They docked at Ephesus Point for four hours of crew rest and extended diagnosis of ship systems. They then undocked and returned to G-145.
One of the more unpleasant parts of N-space piloting, for Ariane, was the transition to real-space. She usually had intense nausea coming off the high clash dose and as she moved into real-space, she had to get reacquainted with her senses. This was when light, sound, touch, smell, and taste seemed too intense and unpleasant for her brain to process. But the combination of the enhanced clash, her metabolism, and perhaps her friendly parasite, made her feel almost normal. Maybe this new clash could help other N-space pilots.
“I’ll check in with CP.” Maria had come off the D-tranny, and now had bright being pumped in by her implant. She chatted with Beta Priamos Command Post while Dalton did a systems check.
Even though Dalton and Maria were qualified to pilot in real-space, Ariane put the
Pytheas
on docking approach, using the S-DATS information.
“That’s odd,” Maria said quietly. “Command Post just moved our departure up, giving us a green light for tomorrow morning at oh-six-hundred hours.”
“Woo-hoo! I’m ready.” Dalton’s exuberance was infectious.
Ariane smiled as he announced their departure time over the ship intercom. But, as she glanced at Maria in the copilot seat, she sternly reminded herself that someone on this ship had a different agenda.
CHAPTER 21
Remember that ICT in G- 145? I know, yesterday’s news is old news for net- rats,
but
. . . did you see the snag they ran into with the sentencing? The Terran member, State Prince Duval, has demanded custody of the prisoners, which doesn’t sit well with half our Senate. Angry rhetoric directed at Overlord Six . . .
—
Dr. Net-head Stavros
, 2106.067.11.24 UT, indexed by
Heraclitus 21
under Conflict Imperative
“G
ood luck, Ari. To quote St. Darius, ‘May you be always shielded from the solar wind, but avail yourself of its power.’ ” Matt’s voice wasn’t compressed and processed by relays, because
Aether’s Touch
was close enough to see on her real-space view, hovering within a kilometer of the Builders’ buoy. Matt and Dr. Lowry would be there for this entire mission, which they all hoped would be completed within seventy-two hours.
“Thanks, Matt. I’ve double- checked the lock signal you’re transmitting. It looks good and this is last voice transmission before drop.
Pytheas
out.”
“See you in a day or so.
Aether’s Touch
out.”
This was the time she loved, when systems were shut down and she was truly
alone
on the ship. Most people couldn’t handle a solitude where they couldn’t call someone using their implants and the nearest node couldn’t be activated with an emergency call. But when a ship dropped out of real-space, one human mind had to stay awake and strangely enough, only one. Multiple minds could lose the ship.
Surprisingly, she felt no more anxiety than for a normal N-space drop and her attitude had rubbed off on Matt and other crew members, to good effect. This was familiar ground and her checklists reinforced that feeling. Before switching off crew status, she ran through the names and readouts from their implants. No one could be awake or cognizant under those amounts of D- tranny. The Minoans had insisted that all passengers take excessively strong doses because of the possible effects from damaged N-space. Beside her in the copilot seat, Maria was webbed in, her body loose with sleep—or an enforced half sleep, if her body tried to rebel. Likewise, Dalton was webbed into the mission command chair behind her.
Selecting the suspicious four names provided by Edones, she double-checked their doses. She had no doubt they were under, particularly after the warnings the Minoans had given them regarding N-space psychosis and how the damaged N-space “fabric” could be worse. Two men and one woman were on the mission crew, while the last of the “suspicious four” was an engineer. She’d met them, pored over their backgrounds, and watched Ensign Walker put them through additional interviews. SP Parmet and Maria had also observed the subtle interrogation designed by Walker. If one of these four was behind the bombings on the
Pilgrimage
, he or she was an incredibly adept actor.
She shut down all the systems requiring sequential Neumann processors and verified the licensing crystal was in the augmented Penrose Fold referential engine. Then she let her webbing wiggle tight and checked her clash levels as a matter of habit. That wasn’t necessary, she reminded herself, because her friendly parasite was monitoring things now.
The twitching heartbeat signal, the evidence of a valid lock signal from a buoy, displayed on her console. The estimated drop time, which the Minoans said might not be accurate, was five hours. For her, the transit might feel short, or it could feel agonizingly long.
She put on a visor that was an imitation of v-play equipment, although it only displayed unprocessed external cam-eye circuits. Leaning back, she put one hand on the N-space control and sent the drop command to the referential engine.
She felt the familiar feeling of slipping into a pool of oil and losing sensation. For her, N-space piloting felt like steering a sensory deprivation tank through a shark-infested canyon with nebulous terrors hiding in shadowy vortices. The test drop had been good, meaning she’d felt insulated from the nightmarish storms she saw in N-space. This was different.
The navigational “path” is different for every pilot, but it’s usually obvious. Not this time—
Gaia, where’s the path? There?
She dodged flashes and discharges of energy. Usually those were encased within shadows. She never peered into the maelstroms, because faces would appear and hungry flickers of energy could reach out, but this time she was
inside
the storms. Struggling not to panic, she tried to steer along the dark thread of a trail.
Isrid watched the track of the TLS
Ming Adams
.
“They’re following their filed flight plan,” Ensign Walker said again.
“I know, but after taking on those prisoners, why would they want to head out to this station? We all know they have no reason to check on the alien buoy.” Isrid didn’t add:
And Duval isn’t taking my calls.
That might sound trivial or even juvenile to Walker, but it was the most troubling indicator of all. The League was heavy with overhead, which meant it had an oversupply of bureaucrats that justified their positions through talk, talk, and more talk. Politics could only form through discourse. When the talking stopped, when a bureaucrat refused to jaw about himself or herself, that was the time to start worrying.
“The Directorate is obviously suspicious,” murmured Walker.
Isrid nodded, watching the FTL data. Shortly after the
Ming Adams
had filed their abbreviated flight plan and abruptly undocked from the
Pilgrimage
, the
Bright Crescent
had done exactly the same. Using top boost, the
Ming Adams
should be able to stay ahead of the
Bright Crescent
, which was heavier but had more firepower. Surprisingly, the
Ming Adams
was letting the AFCAW cruiser gain to within a couple hundred kilometers. Isrid looked to the other side of the diagram, where he could see his station (
his
station?) connected to the Priamos moon, and orbiting the gas giant Laomedon. Coming round that gravity well was the TLS
Percival
, starting its braking and hell-bent for Beta Priamos.
Across the table, Zheng looked at his slate. “SP, there’s a Dr. Istaga who’s demanding to enter. He insists he needs to speak with you, face-to-face.”
Walker looked inquiringly at Isrid, with caution obvious in his eyes, even if he didn’t use
somaural
signals. It appeared that Walker knew Istaga was more than he seemed.
“Blank all the displays. Then let him in.” Everyone complied: Zheng, his female security compatriot, Ensign Walker, and his petty officer, with such a smooth scrubbed face that everyone wondered if he met the TSF age requirements when he enlisted.
“SP, thanks for seeing me.” Dr. Istaga hurried in, but his glance was sharp and he’d left his soft academician voice behind. This was Andre, unvarnished.
“Yes?”
To answer, Andre used quick Martian patois in
somaural
signals. He did it all with his left hand and arm, the one that couldn’t be seen by the others in the room.
Important news. May require unilateral decisions
.
Can you trust your TSF?
Isrid hesitated. The problem with a federated force, like the Terran Space Forces, was what to do when the leadership fissioned—so to speak—and splatted everywhere. Whose orders should they follow? On paper, the TSF was here to support SP Isrid Sun Parmet, but under contradictory orders, there was always a small chance that Ensign Walker would abandon him. Of course, that was why some SPs relied upon irregular militia, even though they were little better than mercenaries.
“Go ahead. We all need to hear the news.” He made a sign that Andre should continue, although the flash in the master spy’s eyes told him that his decision was unwise. However, Isrid had learned much during his leadership of TEBI. One point was that loyalty could often be bought by trust, and the corollary was that if he showed distrust toward Walker, he increased his chances of losing the TSF.
“Very well.” Andre’s voice was clipped. “My source says a declaration of war, upon our Overlord Three, just arrived from Overlord Six.”
There was stunned silence. Then the young petty officer whispered, “What does that mean?”
“It means civil war,” Zheng’s assistant replied, before her wide eyes moved to Zheng, then Isrid. He knew his civilian security would always look to him for command. But would the TSF?
“SP, we have no idea how Three will respond—it may not be civil war that spouts from the multiheaded creature that’s our Overlord and staff. At our level, we may only see a change of policy.” Andre spoke quickly. “You must tread carefully, SP, until you get guidance.”