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  “Well, what’s priority?” Sol steeled himself. Got to learn to deal with her. I’m stuck with her for at least eighty days. If I can keep my distance, stay coolly professional, avoid . . . avoid coming to like her, I’ll be all right. Turn over command as soon as we return. He sighed as he began stowing his kit.

  “None of the messages are listed as priority outside of the Speaker’s,” Boaz informed.

  The messages formed as he dropped to the bunk and closed his eyes. “Oh, Jesus, why’s it have to be this rough?” He thought he kept it under his breath . . . but the ship answered.

  “I wouldn’t know, Captain, but your behavior doesn’t lie within normal parameters.”

  He looked up at the speaker, a twist of Gage’s memory turning within him. “No, I suppose not.”

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

  “Psych program? No, I don’t need that. I’m tired. That’s all. Forced into this command despite any assurances to the ... I ... Never mind, ship.“ Tired? Yes. Confused? Yes. Frightened? Hell, yes! And he knew he shouldn’t have snapped at Arturian that way. Still, the fellow had picked it up immediately despite his frustration and anger. A superb trait in an officer. And the sight of the stars filling the bridge monitors, the heady acceleration through the Arcturian system, all filled Carrasco with that wondrous . . .

  “As to the calls, I’ll trust your analysis. Send the diplomats my regards and tell them I'll attend to social formalities as soon as possible.” He rubbed his eyes, still not completely healed.

  To rest, to simply take a couple of hours and sleep, maybe to have that slumber undisturbed by Gage, or Sword, or Mbazi’s grin or the blown apart bodies back on the Arcturian dock.

  Archon wants an immediate audience. Archon, the key to all this. Am I up for this?

  “Have the Speaker meet me here. Before he gets here, however, you might tell me how my cabin works.”

  “Speaker Archon has been notified and is on his way,” Boaz intoned. Sol followed instructions on how to make a regulation captain’s quarters into a boardroom. Clever design. A desk could fold out of a featureless wall. Comm could extend around the entire cabin, giving him full access to the ship’s status and displays.

  “Captain?” Boaz asked, voice timid. “I denote hostility in your voice. Is there some problem with my functioning?”

  Sol closed his eyes, bracing locked elbows on the desk. Easy. The heart of the ship’s brain is an n-dimensional matrix computer. That’s all. . . all that Gage was. She’s a ship, Solomon. Just an artifact with a sentient brain. Nothing more. Don’t let her get to you. No, not after Gage.

  He heard his voice crack and it angered him. “No, good ship, your functioning is flawless.”

  “I can change my personality projection if it would be helpful.”

  “Your personality is f ... fine.”

  When she spoke again, it was in a soft tone, almost hesitant. “I have reviewed all of my records regarding you, Captain. From your reaction and the psych profile established on you after your last mission, probability suggests that you are afraid of close bonds with me.”

  A tightness closed around Sol’s throat and he glared his hatred at the speaker. It's my mind—keep out of it! screamed a voice in his head. Visions spun out of the depths—the image of Gage lying on her side in the Brotherhood scrap yards, hollow holes where metal had been potted away. Companionways gaped, dark, gutted, and empty. Damn! Say something. Respond somehow. Think! His mind produced the sight of the agent, blown apart on the docks. Mbazi’s body, wrapped in white, flipped end over end in the empty cold of space. Maybry floated out there in the eternal cold, charred, maimed, and frozen. Sol blinked, swallowing hard. Why? Couldn’t they let him rest—give him time to come to grips with his nightmares ?

  His voice rasped gravelly. “If . . .if they didn’t make the ships so ... so well, they wouldn’t have such reactions from their officers.” He glared up through burning eyes, jaw clamped. “Boaz, I want you to understand. Gage was my friend. My ... my very good friend. She and I ... well, I miss her terribly. And . . . and there was a man on the docks today. Saved my life. Died in my place. I’m tired of hurting, ship. Tired of ... death.”

  In the silence, he waited, everything inside gone hollow.

  After almost a minute, the ship spoke. “Captain, when we have more time . . . will you tell me more?”

  He nodded, a limited fragile motion. “Yes, ship. If you wish.”

  “Speaker Archon is at the hatch.”

  Sol straightened, taking a deep breath, stilling the turmoil. “Send him in.”

  The hatch slipped noiselessly sideways in the bulkhead to emit a large man. Once heavily muscled, much of it had turned to fat—not the flabby kind, but the heavy set look of age. Gleaming gray eyes betrayed an acute mind and the deeply etched lines about the mouth reflected pain, authority, and hard living.

  “Speaker, I am Captain Solomon Carrasco. At your service. Please, have a seat.” Sol indicated one of the chairs after a firm handshake. “I ... Do I know you? Something about you is familiar.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Yes, we met—very briefly— some time ago. I take it you haven’t had time to read my file?”

  Sol shook his head. “Until a month ago, I was confined to a med unit for some reconstruction. Since that moment, I’ve been studying the command parameters for my ship and crew. I must confess, I haven’t had time for much else—and familiarity with my vessel was my first priority.”

  “Ship and crew are any commander’s first priority. But then, I hope we’ll have time to discuss those things in detail and leisure later.” The probing gray eyes searched his. Archon handed over a large bottle he been holding behind his back. “This is for you. You see, I’ve done my homework. I believe Star Mist is one of your vices.”

  Sol took the bottle of fine Arcturian whiskey and smiled. “I didn’t know my taste was common knowledge.”

  “It isn’t,” Archon said with a shrug. “Your engineer, Happy Anderson suggested it.”

  “I may have to bat him on the ears. This stuff is as expensive as liquid toron. Care for some now?” Sol raised the bottle with a questioning look.

  “Gladly!” Archon inclined his head as Sol poured.

  Settling himself, Sol studied the Speaker for a moment, that nagging familiarity eating at him. “So, what’s this all about? My commander, Galactic Grand Master Kraal, has ordered me to accede to your every wish and desire. A highly irregular situation, to say the least. Why did they have to call me out of retirement? Why the secrecy? A man died on the dock as I was being ferried from my transport to Boaz. As a result, we huddled the diplomats together and slipped them in as quickly and quietly as possible. Brotherhood ships generally don’t mix in Confederate affairs. We’re philosophically apolitical.”

  Archon leaned back, eyes measuring. “I can’t give you all the answers you’d like for reasons of security.” He raised a thick hand, inclining his head. “And I wouldn’t have you think I was being obtuse. The Galactic Grand Master and I discussed the reasons in great detail. We both think it best to keep everyone in the dark for now. Already men have died over this.

  “Suffice it to say, not even the diplomats know what we’re about. They simply know that severe upheavals are developing in the Confederacy and the answers to those upheavals will be found here, in Boaz, and on Star’s Rest.”

  Sol toyed with his glass, the memory of bloody pulp on the dock fresh in his mind. He studied the lines of Archon’s face, tracing the angle of the jaw, the keen fire of those eyes. Where do I know you from? Where? A moment of power—of desperation. Only, there ‘ve been so many of those in the last ten years. So familiar, if I could just tie it down.

  “I’ll do my absolute best to live with that, Speaker ... up until the point that my ship or crew are endangered.” He looked up, expression hardening. “It would help if you would give me a better understanding of how to accommodate you.”

  Archon leaned back easily, spread
ing his hands. “Captain, I can only tell you that we’re playing a very delicate game. Further, the players are incredibly skilled and competent. Interstellar intrigue is not now—nor has it ever been—a game for the weak of heart.” His voice took on a knife-sharp edge. “They aren’t in this instance either. You will understand someday—if we are successful. If not, it won’t matter. We’ll all be dead.”

  Carrasco’s heart skipped, a sudden dryness in his throat. “I will not risk my ship!”

  Archon nodded slightly, sympathy in his eyes. “Let’s hope you won’t have to. In the meantime, I suggest you declare sensitive areas of the ship off-limits including weapons, engineering, bridge, comm, and other centers which might be sabotaged.”

  “Sabotaged?” Sol almost started to his feet, the whiskey glass clutched white-knuckled in his hand. “Those orders have already been issued. Speaker, I’ve had no experience with sabotage. I’m a deep spacer.”

  Archon chuckled humorlessly. “If I do my job, Captain Carrasco, you have nothing to worry about. On the other hand, our mission necessitates the Council’s representation. Without them, the journey of the Boaz might have pitched the Confederacy into open war.”

  “War? I find that hard to believe, Speaker.” Still Kraal had claimed he’d have taken the command.

  Archon shook his head, expression grim. “Oh, I can read your skepticism, Captain. A man doesn’t chew the knuckle of his thumb with that kind of scowl otherwise. I’d call me crazy, too. But Sirius is jockeying for hegemony—as are New Maine, Terra, and Zion. And, like barbarians at the gates of Rome, the Arpeggians are always on the outside, seeking to cause whatever disruption they can. There are also the anarchists from Gulag Sector who would stir the pot just to see what boiled over.”

  “But war?”

  Archon sighed. “The interstellar situation isn’t as stable as the news hacks would have you believe. For a long time, Captain, the Confederacy has been bursting at the seams. Government—even so limited a government as the Confederacy—is anachronistic in space. The concept of government evolved on Earth when resources were limited in a closed system. It was the purpose of government to see to the redistribution of those resources, you know that.”

  “And in space, after the fall of the Soviet, the role of government has been to see that markets are established and to act as a forum for the exchange of information and a center of communication. It’s impossible to build empires—especially with the independent stations floating around. Planets can be controlled, sure, but not the independent stations,” Sol countered. “That open resource base, and the incredible hugeness of space, make governmental control ridiculous!“

  “Exactly,” Archon agreed intently. “However, that will not stop some individuals from attempting such a mad scheme. The lesson of the World Soviet isn’t all that clear anymore. People can tell you all about the Confederate revolution ... but not why the Supreme Soviet failed.”

  Sol lifted the glass, sipping. The pleasant taste rested easily on his tongue. “Why should I trust you?”

  Archon chuckled—a soft ironic laugh from deep in his belly. “Because those are Kraal’s orders. On the other hand—and more to the point—because my life and the life of my most precious possession, my daughter, rests in your hands.” Eyes vacant, voice faint, he continued. “And, if I fail, nothing will matter anymore for anyone.”

  “And there is a saboteur on my ship? Who? Of the people we’ve taken—”

  “I really can’t say there is ... but given what’s at stake—I wouldn’t doubt it.”

  “And you won’t tell me what this’s—”

  “Not for the moment, Captain.” Archon smiled humorlessly, a sadness in his eyes. “Let me assure you that we’re playing games upon games in circles within circles. There are parties and factions within the government as well as outside the Confederacy who’d stop us.” He emphasized that with a knobby fist. “Why else would Grand Master Kraal give me his finest new ship and his most skilled captain?”

  “I’m not sure I’m . . .”

  Archon’s eyes veiled. “Perhaps. At the same time, you’re the one I trust.”

  “Oh?” Sol stiffened, head cocked. Damn him, who was he?

  “Be patient, Captain Carrasco.” Archon got slowly to his feet. “I wanted to open a dialogue between us. Only by working closely, will we win. Between us, there can be no distrust beyond the obvious one of security. Should you need my services or advice, please, feel free to call on me.”

  “That’s all? We simply travel to Star’s Rest and hope no one plants an antimatter device under the cushions in the lounge?”

  “Isn’t that enough to worry about for now?” Archon asked. “Good day, Captain.”

  The white hatch slid shut behind him. Sol studied the amber liquid in his glass. “Isn’t that enough?” he muttered. “Who is he? Boat, what do we have on this Speaker Archon?”

  He stared at the bulkhead as she read the information.

  “The current Speaker and founder of the colony at Star’s Rest has his origins on Earth as a naval commander in the Terran Protection Force. He left the TPF at the age of twenty-five with the rank of Brevet Captain. From there, he bought several older class Soviet cargo vessels and refitted them for privateer work. During his career, he sold his services to the flags of Sirius, Range, Santa del Cielo, New Israel, New Maine, and Arpeggio. After service with the Arpeggian fleet he disappeared with his command for a period of seven standard years until he arrived five months ago, registered his colony of Star’s Rest, and instituted trade and diplomatic relations.”

  “And this Star’s Rest? Do we have a planetological report?”

  “Star’s Rest falls within terrestrial parameters for CO2 cycling, and atmosphere with 1.2 gravities at .93 AU from its primary—named, appropriately, ‘Star.’ The planet’s axis is perpendicular to the ecliptic. A radioactively heated molten core is tectonically active and powered by two moons in concentric orbit. Planetary environment is A-5 on the Confederate planetological scale. Organic life consists of photosynthesizing plants, corresponding plant parasites, and invertebrates up to fifteen kilograms. No higher order phyla noted.”

  “Any data on his government in the files?”

  “His government is classed as A-3 in Brotherhood analysis and he apparently has a firm loyalty to the Confederacy. According to Brotherhood agents, he appears to be rather chauvinistic when Brotherhood activities are mentioned, although there is no currently known reason for his loyalty. His earliest support for Brotherhood policies was noted after his service with Santa del Cielo.”

  “Arpeggio,” Sol mused, stroking his chin. “I ... Seven years ago? My God! Of course! That’s where ...”

  Memories, like knives, slipped stingingly through his guts. Sol wilted into his chair, resistance sapped. He could place that face now, peering down from Sword’s main bridge monitor. He could almost hear the decompression klaxons wailing behind him, smell the acrid smoke from burning paint, wiring, and plastic, as Arpeggian guns raked him. In the background, a woman screamed that her leg had been blown off.

  Archon’s voice rapped through the speakers, “Captain, I must ask for your surrender. You’ve lost one ship, you do not need to—”

  “Go to hell!” and he’d cut the connection, severing the link with that commanding voice and those predator’s eyes, pouring every erg into acceleration. He’d borne down on an Arpeggian frigate, trying to ram her, slicing through her fields, allowing his guns to gut her. Immediately afterward, Sword’s shields failed and his weapons went dead as blaster bolts severed critical powerlead. But they’d broken free, riding a ballistic torch as systems failed, outrunning the Arpeggians, killing his own people as grav plates failed under the thirty-five g . . . No, don’t torture yourself with the memory.

  “And I cannibalized her,” he gritted. “Killed my ship to save my crew.” He forced pained eyes up, staring dully at the white panels overhead. “And now he’s here? Why? I’m protecting the man who murde
red my ship and crew? WHY? GOD DAMN IT!”

  “ Captain?” Boat called. “ Are you—”

  “Ship, what are my options? Can I have him restricted to quarters? Arrested? What are—”

  “Captain, by order of the Galactic Grand Master, Speaker Archon and his daughter have unlimited access to this vessel up to clearance code 0.01.”

  Sol stopped short, staring. “You can’t be serious! The man ambushed Sword! Killed my—”

  “Captain? Is this how you intend to command? Through emotional outbreaks?”

  Sol froze, a clenched fist half-raised, Boaz’s words an acid eating through his fear and anger. Slowly, carefully, he filled his lungs, calming his charged muscles.

  “No, ship,” he said through a long exhale. He paced the confines of the cabin, mentally reeling. “I. . . Maybe I’m not ready for this command. Maybe I should have stuck to my guns when Kraal . . .” he cocked his head, staring nervously at the bulkheads. “Damn it! I’m not well yet!”

  “Is it your wish to be relieved of command?”

  Sol lifted his chin, eyes slitted thoughtfully. Was it? For a long moment, he stood, statuesque. So much at risk. Could he do it? Was he even still sane?

  “I. . . .” And what the hell was Archon doing on his ship? With Brotherhood blessing no less? Surely Kraal had to know Archon’s role in the destruction of Sword ... in the loss of all those lives. So, whose side was Archon really playing?

  And only two First Officers with no deep space experience could take his place. No Maybry Andaki waited to take the burden. No Fil Cerratanos sat on the bridge, ready to cover for Solomon Carrasco. No way out. The responsibility settled firmly on his shoulders.

  He steeled himself, the words thick in his mouth. “I do not wish to be relieved of command. At the same time, ship, I realize my vulnerabilities. Someone will have to ride herd on my actions. I guess that falls to you through your psych program correlations.”