The monitor leads disappeared under the bed frame, instead of plugging into Joyce’s implants. A whispering sound at the door made her look around; Warrior Commander stood there with a slightly cocked head, as if homing in on a sound beyond human senses.
A frigid breeze brushed her and she stepped backward. The Minoan was suddenly kneeling beside the bed, reaching under it. When Warrior Commander stood, it held out its gloved hands. On the right hand rested a tiny sensor pad that connected via a thin wire to a small cylindrical device in the left hand. Her throat tightened:
a Terran antipersonnel grenade
, smaller than Warrior Commander’s palm. An old but reliable device used by TEBI during the war, designed to maim and wound. A device that couldn’t be separated from its sensor without causing detonation.
She whispered, “Don’t break the wi—”
Warrior Commander closed long inhuman fingers over the two devices and pulled. She heard the wire snap as she threw herself on the bed to cover Joyce.
CHAPTER 4
The establishment of an interstellar criminal tribunal (ICT) for some horrendous happening in G-145, muffled like a government cover-up, has net-think focusing upon the roots of interstellar criminal law. Als are scurrying to index this history, relegated to the obscurity of late-twentieth-century pre-Terran Earth. . . .
—Dr. Net-head Stavros
, 2106.052.22.04 UT, indexed by
Heraclitus 17
under Flux Imperative
A
riane landed lengthwise on the bed, covering Joyce’s torso and head. She waited, tensely, for the deafening explosion and the pain of molten metal piercing her back and legs. She winced at a muffled pop and crackle.
“You are safe, Breaker of Treaties.”
She raised her head to look at Warrior Commander and cleared her throat. “What happened?”
“Please make your emergency call.”
Right—the
Pilgrimage
had to be warned. She pressed her implant mike. “Emergency, nine-one-one. We need an explosive ordnance disposal team in infirmary room three-two-seven. This is Major Kedros.” The traditional emergency code should be routed to the control deck, by any means possible. She heard warning alarms start in the corridor. Her message went through, so the node in Joyce’s room really
did
work, at least for processing base- level emergency directives.
The Minoan warrior had its hands tightly closed, held carefully away from its torso. Slowly, its hands uncurled to show the sensor pad in one and a molten mass of metal in the other. A strange and unpleasant smell filled the room, partly caustic explosive, and partly—what? The Minoan gloves, apparently, weren’t made of leather.
When she reached to touch what had once been a grenade, Warrior Commander stepped back and said, “It will burn your skin.”
“Room three-two-seven, this is
Pilgrimage
command deck. Major Kedros, are you there?” The voice, carrying over the alarms, came from the comm panel next to the door. “A damage assessment team is on its way, and we’ve called for explosive ordnance disposal personnel from the
Bright Crescent
.”
The medical technician bustled in, checked Joyce, and called for support. More medics pushed their way to the bed and fussed over Joyce. Then, as if there weren’t enough people in the room already, the AFCAW Explosives Ordnance Disposal team showed up. She convinced Warrior Commander to hand over what was left of the grenade to the EOD team. There wasn’t any space to move, particularly with everyone trying to keep a safe distance from Warrior Commander. The medics noticed this also, and demanded that all nonmedical personnel get out of the room.
She quickly complied, followed by Warrior Commander, and found a crowd had formed outside Joyce’s room. People started appearing from nowhere. She saw Lieutenant Oleander appear with a thin sallow man.
Captain Doreen Floros, another Directorate golem, was suddenly at her elbow and remarked, “You seem to attract explosives, Major Kedros.”
“What happened?” asked Benjamin Pilgrimage.
Then it got crazy—rather,
crazier
. Feed correspondents showed up, with their platform cam-eyes and bright lights. Everybody who was anybody seemed to be squeezing into the infirmary hallway, shouting questions at Ariane. She started edging into the no-man’s zone around Warrior Commander, a perimeter of about one meter, just to get space to breathe. Against her back, she felt cold air stirring those black robes. Once, when she glanced down and behind her, she glimpsed a writhing darkness within a fold of the robes, whereupon she suppressed a shudder and kept her gaze forward.
“Clear this infirmary. Now!” This came from the Chief Medic, who persevered with a loud voice.
Pilgrimage
security came to her rescue, breaking up the crowd.
“Thank you for saving our lives,” Ariane said quietly, directing her words over her shoulder.
Warrior Commander’s head dipped in acknowledgment.
“Research is in shambles, SP, particularly the programs for the Builders’ buoy.” Maria Guillotte was conferencing in from the surface of Priamos. Her image showed the upper half of her body for
somaural
communication.
“That’s good. We want to replace those contractors with Terran companies,” Ensign Walker said.
A typical response from a young Terran Space Force officer, and State Prince Isrid Sun Parmet gave him a tight smile, adding a subtle flourish with his fingers that said,
You still have much to learn
. Ensign Walker’s jaw tightened.
Maria, who had worked for Isrid for many years in TEBI and then as his personal aide, explained. “We can’t just move in on other contracts or leases, Ensign. The Consortium’s S-triple-ECB requires an organized, and unfortunately bureaucratic, process.”
“Who owns those leases?” Walker was apparently familiar with the Consortium’s Space Exploration, Exploitation, and Economics Control Board, or SEECB.
“Aether Exploration,” Maria said.
“Oh.” Walker’s eyebrows went up.
So did Isrid’s assessment of Ensign Walker. He’d hoped to get an experienced officer to manage security on Beta Priamos Station, but at least Walker had read his classified background briefings. The ensign would know the delicate difficulties: Isrid had coerced Aether Exploration, in the person of Major Ariane Kedros, into signing leases over to Terran interests. Ensign Walker might also know more classified details, such as Kedros’s being kidnapped by Maria, then tortured by Nathanial Wolf Kim, both of whom were Isrid’s aides. However, Isrid hoped Walker was oblivious to the most recent reason Kedros might hate him: His co-wife Sabina had taken out her revenge and her rage, physically, upon an inebriated Kedros. That seemed so long ago, although it happened only a day before Abram’s aborted takeover.
“We can petition for contractor reassignment, but I doubt Aether Exploration will consider it.” Isrid’s co-wife Garnet showed her usual efficiency, making a note on her slate.
When Pilgrimage HQ contracted Isrid and his staff to manage the station, Garnet took over administrative work in the scramble to continue Priamos research and development after Abram’s short reign of terror. Abram had killed off almost a fifth of the civilian contractors because they “worked for Minoans.” Specifically, they’d worked for an Autonomist company named Hellas Nautikos that was majority-funded with Minoan capital.
“Don’t bother petitioning,” Maria told Garnet. “Every contractor and lessee will submit rebuttals; they’ll hold their leases tight, even if they can’t afford to work them right now. The problem is the Autonomist banks and insurers—they’re the ones who won’t take the risks.”
While the others brainstormed solutions for the research gridlock, Isrid sensed a presence in an alcove by the far doors. The yellow-green froth of her aura, smelling like pines, gave Sabina away. Unexpectedly, he’d started sensing auras even when he wasn’t deep in trance—ever since Abram had pumped him full of pain enhancers and psychotropic fear inducers.
The meeting agenda turned to security. Ensign Walker’s current roadblock was convincing Pilgrimage HQ to change their position on background investigations. “We’re still trusting research contractors to screen their own personnel.”
“You won’t get Pilgrimage to budge on that, since Abram’s converts didn’t come from any R and D contractors,” Garnet said.
“But his moles in station maintenance did more than enough harm,” Walker shot back. “And they were the result of lax background investigations.”
Isrid stopped the developing squabble with a gesture. “What about expanding ComNet coverage?” he asked. “It would improve station security, as well as help the Autonomist contractors.”
“ComNet says they can’t afford hazard pay and insurance premiums for workers in G-145.” Walker shook his head. “Ironically, we’ve got two of their best installers in lock-up for helping Abram. Neither had a criminal history, before this.”
“Can we use prisoner labor? Those two installers could extend our coverage.”
“Pilgrimage HQ will probably require they volunteer their skills,” mused Walker, obviously feeling his way through a morass of unfamiliar regulations. “And I’m sure there are plenty of Autonomist legal hoops to jump through.”
Likewise, Isrid had no authority over non-Terran assets or personnel, other than what Pilgrimage HQ and the Consortium’s SEEECB allowed him. Besides, what was there to control? Right now, some bored troops rattled around Beta Priamos station, frozen midconstruction, while the station’s upkeep overwhelmed the remaining maintenance staff. The research facilities on Priamos’s surface were understaffed as well.
Ensign Walker finished his report, adding nothing new. After Isrid adjourned, the ensign left as quickly as polite-ness allowed.
Garnet’s gaze rose from her slate and fixed on the dark alcove near the far doors. “Looking for entertainment, Sabina? Can’t find any drunks to roll?” Her voice carried an uncharacteristic streak of annoyance.
Isrid’s curiosity was piqued as he watched his wives. Garnet was usually indifferent to Sabina’s tempestuous behavior but not this most recent sulk. His wives hadn’t come through Abram’s crucible unchanged, and neither had he, proven by the haze of aura he caught in the corner of his eye when he looked away from people. Everyone knew the body emitted an electromagnetic field; Autonomists transferred data over it and Terran
somaural
masters claimed they could be seen via meditative trance—but
this
wasn’t normal. Should he see a doctor? Whom could he trust, here in G-145?
The faint sound of airlocks closing carried through the curved conference room bulkheads, the result of Ensign Walker making best speed to the Security Control Center. Sabina stepped out of the alcove with taut and controlled movements. She rivaled Isrid in
somaural
projection and showed off her artistry whenever she could.
“We’ve received a threatening message,” Sabina said.
Why the drama?
He signaled Sabina to follow standard procedure. His public queue received several threats an hour, according to his security staff.
“Has Flynn tagged it? Do Erica and Yvette need to take special precautions?” Garnet frowned, her thoughts going to their daughters.
He’d spent precious out-of-system bandwidth this morning to talk with his daughters and neither had mentioned security problems. Luckily, they still lived within the secure family complex on Mars; Erica was beginning university courses and Yvette was studying for her secondary school finals. They assured him this hiatus from parental oversight wasn’t hindering their studies—although he read the sub-text of joyous freedom in their voices. It was a false joy, since Erica and Yvette knew the household staff sent daily reports and
all
their parents read them, down to the last detail. It was one of the disadvantages of only having three parents when Terran society considered a balanced child-rearing multimarriage as three fathers and three mothers.
“The threat wasn’t routed to Mars.” Sabina’s fingers added,
Our daughters are safe
. “It popped up on our private queue here at Beta Priamos.”
“Over ComNet? Unlikely, given its privacy controls,” Isrid said.
Garnet poked at her slate. “Perhaps that’s the point. Whoever sent this knows where we are—physically.”
“I think the point’s made clear in the text,” Sabina said. “The message promises dire consequences for a State Prince who allowed a
destroyer of Ura-Guinn to go free
, and for his
family
.”
It was a reference to Major Kedros. Not many people knew her background, let alone that he’d ransomed her safety for the G-145 leases.
Finally, something serious
. Isrid picked up his slate, knocked out of an ennui brought on by station issues ranging from clearing sewage smells on Ring Three, to allowing prisoners their rightful hour of exercise under the Pilgrimage legal system.
“Flynn’s already analyzing the message.” Sabina stopped him from searching his queue.
“This goes no further—only
our
security will work this,” Isrid said. Garnet and Sabina nodded agreement; this was something they’d only trust to Flynn and his staff.
“Flynn will have his analysis to you in an hour and he’s sending more personnel.” Sabina cocked her head to indicate the brawny male and female bodyguards outside the conference room. Flynn’s staff refused to be caught delinquent again in their protection of the State Prince and his family.
Garnet sighed, probably weary of being trailed everywhere on a sparsely populated station.
“Flynn also passed a keyword message, which I saved in your queue. The message is,
Andre’s coming to the dance, but his card is empty
.” Sabina quoted the message word for word, understanding the necessity for accuracy, but moved quickly to the true source of her ire. “Isrid, this threat is your fault. Your son wouldn’t be in this danger if you’d executed Kedros when you had the chance.”