RICH SPACE OPERA IN A COLORFUL, MIND-BOGGLING UNIVERSE.

In the twenty-fourth century, Humankind has made a great leap forward, colonizing over a thousand planets and exploring thousands more.

It also survived a bloody civil war.

Now, people must struggle with revolutionary changes. In the Xan 4 System, both scientists and Federation soldiers, including Sergeant Henryan Darski, who is temporarily on parole, secretly observe two alien races from an orbital station. The sergeant is supposed to identify a group of people who—against procedures—are trying to save one of the races. At stake is not only the survival of the Warriors of the Bone, but also Henryan’s life.

Meanwhile, in the distant New Rouen System, the Nomad, a ship from the Recycling Corps, finds a mysterious, millennia-old shipwreck while clearing the fields of long-forgotten space battles. The derelict’s advanced technology is impressive …

… but the being found onboard could shake the very foundation of human civilization …

PRAISE FOR ROBERT J. SZMIDT

“With the right tech, it’s easy to be a god. But as Robert J. Szmidt points out in this impressive novel, to be a god for the right reasons, sometimes you have to spend a few years in Hell, first.”

—David Weber, author of the Honor Harrington series.

“An exciting beginning to an epic saga of space exploration. Morrisey and his crew of daring, corrupt rogues will hold you breathless as they loot the wrecks of spaceships—until they find the one that could change everything in the galaxy.”

—Nancy Kress, author of Beggars in Spain

“A fast-paced tale of a piratical salvage crew who find more than they expected when they discover an ancient Alien artifact. An engaging story.”

—Jack Campbell, author of The Lost Fleet series.

“The Fields of Long-Forgotten Battles series by Robert J. Szmidt shows a truly remarkable imagination, and is told with charm and originality. I highly recommend it.”

—Mike Resnick

“Robert J. Szmidt writes on a vast canvas. His stories are ambitious space opera that will capture your imagination.”

—Kevin J. Anderson

EASY TO BE A GOD

THE FIELDS OF LONG-FORGOTTEN BATTLES, BOOK 1

ROBERT J. SZMIDT

Easy to Be a God

Copyright © 2014 Robert J. Szmidt

Originally published by REBIS Publishing House 2014

Royal Hawaiian Press 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

The ebook edition of this book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the ebook edition with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

WordFire Press has chosen to reissue selected out-of-print novels, in hopes of creating a new readership. Because these works were written in a different time, some attitudes and phrasing may seem outdated to a modern audience. After careful consideration, rather than revising the author’s work, we have chosen to preserve the original wording and intent.

EBook ISBN: 978-1-68057-236-0

Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-68057-235-3

Dust Jacket Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-68057-237-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021951082

Cover design by Janet McDonald

Cover artwork images by Adobe Stock

Kevin J. Anderson, Art Director

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Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers

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CONTENTS

I. The Nomad’s Mission

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

II. The Colony

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

III. The Station

Prologue

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

If You Liked …

Other WordFire Press Titles By Robert J. Szmidt

DEDICATION

With thanks to all the great SF masters

who have read Easy to Be a God

and supported me all along.

PART ONE

THE NOMAD’S MISSION

ONE

THE SOLAR SYSTEM, ALPHA SECTOR

06/22/2354

“Time to get up, my lord…” whispered Monicatherine, still sleepy, and stretched herself sensually between the rustling sheets.

“Not just yet, the sun’s barely rising,” said Nike very quietly, making himself heard, but not disturbing her blissful idleness.

He sat, or in fact reclined, in a shallow armchair draped with a tiger fur, eyes fixed on the narrow bay window. Sipping tangy wine from a crystal goblet, he watched the treetops being tossed by the strong wind and the gray-blue mountain range looming in the distance. Although the first rays of dawn had just lit up the horizon, it was bright enough to make out every detail of the landscape. Wispy clouds drifted lazily across the sky like wreaths of smoke from a dying campfire. Among them frolicked slender, winged silhouettes racing the wind. Too distinctive to be confused with birds. Too swift and lithe. Too glistening. An entire wing of fiery red dragons had left their nests to greet the day in the air.

“Why didn’t you awake me, master?”

The question came from behind his armchair so unexpectedly that he started involuntarily, dropping the goblet. Either Monicatherine had crept up so quietly, or he had been so wrapped in thought. The crystal vessel—fortunately already empty—fell directly onto the furs carpeting the stone floor. It didn’t smash, and only a few drops of scarlet liquid splashed on the long, snow-white hairs, however …

That’s not a good sign, Nike grimaced.

“What’s bothering you, darling?” The girl was crouching alongside now. She rested her head in the crook of his shoulder, letting him slide his fingertips over her long golden hair.

“You know very well what.” He leaned over to kiss her, but she stood up right at that moment.

She passed by him naked, still sleep-warm and dreamy, stood in front of the window obscuring the whole view, and then bent forward sensually, resting her elbows on the narrow windowsill.

“Dragons … look how many there are today, darling,” she said, knowing that his attention was not focused on the winged giants.

“I like dragons,” Nike responded, trying to sound unruffled. “They’re so dignified, but at the same time so carefree.”

Monicatherine smiled. A moment later, she knelt by the window and together they watched the distant, whirling glimmers. The pale red dawn continued to swell on the horizon.

“I’ll miss them,” Nike added. At the same time a sudden flash made him snap his eyelids shut. He kept his eyes closed tightly, but it did not help much; he still felt as if the naked sun had blazed straight into his pupils.

“It’s seven already,” he heard Monicatherine’s words. “Your last parade … You’re gonna be late.”

The blinding flash made him realize she had turned off the illusioner. The image of the stone wall with the narrow bay window vanished, and with it—the trees, mountains, sky, and the dragons dancing in the wind. The panoramic screen occupying half the cabin now showed the boundless blackness of space and the home world suspended in it. Precisely synchronized with the illusion, the Sun had emerged from behind the edge of the blue and white globe. The photochromic crystallite darkened instantly, yet Nike was dazzled anyway—all it took was the blink of an eye.

“I’ll make it.” He groaned, partly with pain and partly because it was their last shared illusion.

“It sounds as if you don’t want to go to the parade.” She walked over to him rolling her hips, but stopped beyond his reach. “Are you sure everything’s all right?”

“You’ve seen my grade book,” he answered evasively, still rubbing his eyes. “I’ve got the fourth best score in my year.”

“And I told you it’s enough, didn’t I? Trust me.”

“I do, darling.” He reached out to grab her waist, but only caught thin air and that unique—though somehow elusive—scent of warm skin.

Monicatherine stepped back nimbly and continued to look intently at him, as though to imprint his image in her memory; his elongated face, straight, proportional nose, high cheekbones lending him the alpha male look, deep-set brown eyes, and jet-black short hair only growing at the back of his head.

“You seem so downcast today,” she began as he was getting up from the armchair.

“C’mon. It’s not every day you graduate from the Academy.”

“Being inducted isn’t a sentence,” she retorted. “Nothing’s really going to change. With your grades you’re sure to stay within the Solar System. You might even get a post here in orbit.”

“Yes, nothing’s gonna change between us,” he assured her, knowing that his words were at least as false as the illusion they had been watching a short time before.

“Get going,” she said, throwing him a jumpsuit—the dress uniform for last-year cadets—the same one he had so meticulously folded the evening before. “There’s only fifteen minutes left till the first whistle, and I’d like to—”

She didn’t have to finish. He knew what she wanted. He also knew he would miss that the most.

“Attention!” Three equilateral formations of uniformed figures straightened up in a split second.

In this place everything appealed to the imagination: the semidarkness of the immense hangar, the streamlined contours of the fighters looming in the distance, the massive bulk of assault ships, and more than anything—the omnipresent cold, which reminded the participants in the ceremony that they were only separated from endless space by a layer of porous helon a few yards thick.

“And finally, Admiral-Rector Damiandreas Dreade-Ravenore,” the duty officer announced, then saluted the lecturers occupying seats in the honorary grandstand and left the rostrum, giving his place over to a well-built man.

Dredd, even though bald as a coot, wasn’t at all old. He may have notched up a hundred sixty years, of which a hundred and thirty-three years he had spent in active service, but he still looked like a young god thanks to almost eight decades of forced hibernation. He was as tall as a basketball player, had a square jaw, broad shoulders, the muscles of a bodybuilder, and limber but dignified movements. All the cadets envied the Admiral his fitness, but none of them would have confessed—even under torture—that during the six long years of training they had felt even a trace of affection toward him. Damiandreas Dreade-Ravenore was a supercilious, sadistic clone-of-a-bitch and liked nothing better than to give speeches. He loved to torment the cadets physically but also verbally. They had experienced both kinds of harassment many times—firsthand and first ear, so to speak—and long before had sworn that none of them would utter the slightest sound during his farewell speech.

“At ease, cadets!” he began customarily, holding up a thick sheaf of papers, which contained notes for his speech.

He then fell pointedly silent, counting on the murmur of despair he so relished. This time, though, the cadets stayed true to their word and disappointed Dredd. Those in the middle of the front row could see the Admiral’s eyelid twitching.

“I have no doubt that more than once you’ve asked yourselves why we trained you in such tough conditions,” he said in an angry tone, putting the script down on the rostrum. “Why you had to carry out the most complicated warning procedures with your eyes closed, when—”

Here he stopped and shifted his gaze over the regular formations, before picking up his speech with a repetition, a favorite rhetorical device of his that allowed him to lengthen his address.

“—why you had to carry out the most complicated warning procedures with your eyes closed, when for a hundred and eighteen years no vessel of the Federation Fleet has been involved in combat. We have no enemies today, I agree. The first and the last colonial war was an absolute and unequivocal success. But it was a Pyrrhic victory, there’s no denying it. Every family lost loved ones in that conflict. However, that immense blood sacrifice ensured our civilization a century of peaceful existence and unprecedented development. Never has peace been so enduring in the history of Humankind.

“We reached the stars barely three centuries ago. The beginnings were humble. The colonization of the Moon lasted forty-five years, following the first flights to the Silver Globe picked up again in the initial decades of the twenty-first century. Things went more swiftly with Mars, but we still needed thirty years in order for the domes of cities and industrial installations to spring up among the rust-colored sands. The beginning of the twenty-second century finally brought a breakthrough, a huge breakthrough. The invention of FTL drive—for the first time in history, fully efficient—allowed the human race to reach the stars.

“Events gathered pace. Thousands of space probes hurtled toward distant systems, extending the borders of the known Universe. The final frontier had been overcome; the final obstacle keeping us on Earth, the cradle of Humankind, had been surmounted. People had left the home world and in less than a hundred fifty years had colonized one thousand and fourteen planets in eight hundred and seventy-two star systems within a one thousand nine hundred light-year radius of Earth. They had also investigated a further eighteen thousand dead star systems, unsuitable for colonization. That’s a great deal, a really great deal for almost three centuries of expansion, and were it not for the period of civil war—” The Admiral made a short rhetorical pause again.

“That’s a great deal, a really great deal for almost three centuries of expansion, and had it not been for the civil war we might have added to that list hundreds—if not thousands—of other worlds. But what is our Federation in the grand scheme of things, since even ten times as many colonized planets would be a mere drop in the ocean of the Galaxy? Tens of billions of new stars still await exploration in the center of the Milky Way, not to mention those in its remaining spiral arms. We haven’t got the slightest idea how many habitable, Earthlike planets orbit them. Neither do we know how many civilizations as powerful as ours, or even mightier, may exist there.

“The fact that we have not yet discovered advanced forms of life in the one arm of the Milky Way we have so far explored, that we have not come across any signals or artifacts left by Aliens, doesn’t mean in any way that they do not exist. That they aren’t out there,” he nodded toward the bulkhead, “just beyond the frontiers of knowledge. And that they haven’t been observing us for a long time … That they won’t threaten us in the more distant or quite near future … The Universe is immense; some even say it’s infinite. We will not be safe, while even one system in the farthest corner of the Galaxy remains unexplored. And the end of the exploration will only be possible in thousands—and who knows if not tens of thousands—of years.”

He stopped again, ran his hand over the naked skin above his left ear, as if he wanted to smooth down some nonexistent hair. His fingers touched the long red scar, which extended as far as the root of his nose, transforming his face into a warning of what might befall any one of those present in the hangar out there in space, when the true test comes.

“We’ve been unified for a hundred and eighteen years. For the first time in the history of Humankind there are no states, no nations; the concepts of races and borders have lost all significance. Our great-great-grandfathers shed their blood and laid down their lives to unite all people under a single banner. However, the Federation will still need at least another century to compensate for the losses incurred in that war. Many worlds are awaiting repopulation, many planets can no longer be our home—”

He fell silent. This time, he didn’t glance at the cadets. Once again he had drifted off into memories of the times he had looked at the dying colonies as a soldier, an officer, and finally the commander of one of the fleets. Scores of planets had been turned into eternal cemeteries; hundreds of colonies were still licking their wounds. That was the cost of the ultimate union. All the cadets knew that look on the admiral’s face, and were aware that his pondering over the past would soon be over.

“Today you complete your training in the most elite school,” the Admiral spoke again. “Tomorrow you begin service in frontline vessels. You will be dispersed throughout the Universe, across dozens of sectors, and hundreds of systems. Some of you, however, will be granted the honor of serving here, on Earth. Yes, I have seven such assignments.”

When the Admiral waved some cards he had taken out of his pocket, from the ranks standing in front of him came soft murmurs of satisfaction, acknowledged—of course—by Dredd’s wry smile. No one had expected him to show so many gold cards.

“For the first time in five years such a large number of graduates will take up service in High Command on Earth. Seven assignments for the seven top students, for best of the best. Before I award them, however, I have something less felicitous to communicate.”

A deathly silence fell. All cadets knew what would be said, but none of them wanted to hear it.

“I have received from High Command official orders—” The Admiral-Rector paused to emphasize the gravity of the words he was about to utter. “I have received from High Command official orders for fifty-three cadets to serve honorably and responsibly in the craft of Recycling Corps.”

A dull groan swept through the hangar. Dredd did not react, but looked down triumphantly at the sour faces of the cadets standing in the rear row. They had the greatest chance of “honorable” service in the Recycling Corps, where the death toll was still heavy.

“A great adventure awaits you, gentlemen. You weren’t committed to your war studies, so now you’ll be able to see the wartime effects for yourselves. Here are your invitations to the fields of long-forgotten battles,” concluded Damiandreas Dreade-Ravenore, not without satisfaction, activating the screen of his reader. “But first allow me to commence my speech …”

Nike toyed with the small, oblong piece of plastic inscribed with his future. Or actually the absence of a future. Following Dredd’s speech—which lasted more than an hour—the ceremonial awarding of assignments took place and another academic year officially ended. Not many people remained in the hangar. A few lecturers saying goodbye to their favorite students and around a dozen cadets still waiting for the liaison officers of minor vessels, who apparently had been delayed. In fact one could have said “around a dozen condemned men.” Service onboard the heavy wreckers of the Recycling Corps was far from safe. This year’s fifty-three posts meant that at least as many crew members had departed this life since the last parade.

“Statcherskee!” The distorted sound of his surname brought Nike out of his reverie.

He looked up just as Dredd, who was talking to a short, fat man in filthy mechanic’s overalls, pointed at him. He picked up his kitbag and threw it over one shoulder.

“You’re Statcherskee, are you?” A red-haired officer with a puffy face walked over and held out a hand stinking of chemicals to take his card.

“My name’s Stachursky. It’s a Polish name, so you pronounce the ‘CH’—”

“Shut it, boy.”

“Yes, sir!”

Only when he drew closer did Nike notice a modest stripe with the rank of captain of the Fleet and the name “MORRISEY” sewn on beneath the faded gold lettering of “FSS NOMAD” on the worn-out, stained overalls.

His card was at once shoved into a reader, but Morrisey, rather than turning on his heel, whistled softly and glanced at the cadet. Nike didn’t notice it, for he was gaping in horror at the metal fingers gripping the case of a small comlink.

“Are you taking the piss?” asked the astonished captain of the Nomad without looking up. “I see from the exam results here that you’re one of this year’s top graduates. Fourth best score. Your sort don’t wind up with us.”

“Sir, it’s not a mistake, sir.” Nike clicked his heels in accordance with regulations.

“Really? So how do you explain it then, boy?” Morrisey asked, nodding at the reader where, next to a hologram of his face and personal details, one could see the results of all his exams and the almost perfect final grade.

“Let’s say he penetrated something he shouldn’t have, and too deeply at that.” Dredd approached them and answered for the nonplussed cadet.

“What?” Captain Morrisey looked surprised.

“I beg to report, sir, that I fucked the Admiral’s youngest daughter!” Nike explained to his new superior slightly louder than the situation demanded.

The laughter of the lecturers standing nearby died out in an instant.

TWO

“Did he really say that?” asked Heraclesteban Iarrey, the Nomad’s skinny beanpole of a first officer, wiping the sweat off his neck with a paper towel and throwing the wet tissue straight onto the deck.

The extractors began to recycle the thin paper the moment it touched the metal grille. Someone had decided that the temperature on the bridge of the wrecker would imitate the tropics. It must have been the captain, because none of the regular crew were protesting.

“Really.” Morrisey, sitting in a chair with his legs crossed on the table, continued to examine the files of the five cadets who were standing meekly in a row by the wall beside the food dispenser.

They were all more or less the same height and build, as if those criteria were the reason they had ended up onboard the Nomad.

“And Dredd didn’t kill him?” Iarrey said in amazement, taking another paper towel.

“He would have, as God’s my witness. But the boy was already under my command.” Morrisey waved Nike’s card.

“You were lucky then, son.” The Nomad’s chief navigator, cornet-pilot Annataly Davidoff-Rozerer, the only woman onboard, examined the new arrivals as though they were goods displayed for sale. “If our good old boss wasn’t such a martinet—”

“I promised the old man that for a small fee the turd won’t survive his first job,” Morrisey added casually.

Loud laughter roared through the mess hall. Even Father Pedroberto, the Nomad’s chaplain, chuckled. Only the cadets maintained prescribed silence.

“All right, I owe you a welcome, so here goes—” The reader was finally put away in a pocket and the feet of the Nomad’s captain touched the deck. “My name, as you may well know by now, is Henrichard Morrisey and the rules are very simple and easy to remember.

“Firstly, onboard this vessel I’m more important than God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Secondly, if you thought that Admiral Dreade-Ravenore was the worst cunt in our sector, you’ll soon find out that you didn’t have a clue what real cuntiness is. Thirdly, the work we’ve got to do is in no way easy or safe. The fact that the Nomad needed five new cadets this year ought to tell you a lot about the tasks awaiting us, or rather, I should say, you.

“Recycling Corps third wing, of which we are part, has received from High Command the order to clean up the notorious Victor Sector. So far we’ve managed to do roughly half the job. Now we’re just reaching the Victor 3A13 system, if that name means anything to you. Well?” He glared at the cadets, who nodded fervently. “In that case I’d like to hear a short summary of major battles in this system,” he said and pointed at the first one in the line.

“We gave them a good kicking, sir!” Peterasmus De’Vere had the sixth score—counting from the wrong end, of course, which came as no surprise considering his appearance alone suggested a total absence of gray matter.

“We gave them a good kicking, you say? A very interesting statement … though if you think about it a bit longer, totally wrong.”

“They gave us a good kicking, sir!” The cadet grinned triumphantly.

Morrisey shook his head in disbelief. De’Vere was struck dumb.

“Was it a tie?” he asked in amazement.

“Ties, you pathetic excuse for a cadet, are what judges from the space league call. Perhaps you will tell us about it?” The captain’s finger passed Nike over and rested on the chest of Christopherasmus Carre-Four.

The foolish smile faded from the narrow lips of the aristocratic slim face the moment the cadet understood that the order didn’t apply to Nike.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to—” mumbled the fourth clone of an aristocrat from a second-rate planet.

“You think right, you clone-of-a-bitching spawn!” Morrisey interrupted him unceremoniously, and, ignoring the crimson spots which had appeared on the cadet’s cheeks, roared at the top of his voice, “And what do you, slobs, have to say for yourselves?!”

To that question neither Josephilip Kolczuk, a pimply and taciturn midget said to be the bastard son of a prominent bigwig from Earth, nor his total opposite, Yukitaro Domita, the fourteenth child of a serf from a planet with such a complicated name that no one dared utter it in its entirety, could come up with an answer. Which was actually not so surprising, since—like the first pair questioned—they represented the Academy’s lowest intellectual level and would never have graduated, had it not been for positive discrimination and pressure from the governments of lesser sectors. Not to mention the High Command’s plans regarding the replenishment of Recycling Corps’ crew.

Finally, Morrisey pointed at Nike.

“Victor 3A13 is the catalogue name of the system known in astronavigational atlases as New Rouen. It consists of a single G4-type star and eight planets. It is distinguished by an extremely high concentration of hyperspace tunnels,” recited the recent high-flyer of the Fleet’s best school, standing as stiff as a ramrod.

“For that reason, during the war, New Rouen was one of the most important transfer points in the Victor Sector. The Federation planned to take control of it at the beginning of the conflict in order to cut off some of the enemy’s distant planetary systems from hyperspace supplies. To that end two strike teams were sent, which were supposed to attack at the same time the installations on Delta, the only inhabited planet in the system, and an orbital transit station, built before the rebellion of the outer colonies. That operation unfortunately resulted in the utter defeat of the Federation’s forces. The enemy, for the first time in the history of space conflicts, planted mines at the predicted entry points around the gateways, thus breaking all known conventions. Moreover, the rebels had gathered considerable space forces to protect the defense command of the entire subsector, which was being established right then on Delta. Admiral Tahomey led his striking force out right onto one of the minefields and lost almost half of his frontline vessels immediately after leaving hyperspace.

“The second task force had more luck during the first stage of the operation, but as it soon turned out, four squadrons of battleships defending the headquarters and the transit station were a tough nut to crack even for the Federation’s most modern vessels. It could be said that no clear victor emerged from the battle. Most of the system’s defensive installations were destroyed, but control over it was not regained. The two fleets inflicted heavy damage on each other in the battle, which lasted almost thirteen hours, and—”

“All right. That’s enough!” Morrisey interrupted the cadet, and placed his feet on the table once again. “Cadet Stachursky has done his homework, which can’t be said about the rest of your little gang. Which is why from now on the remaining honorable cadets will have numbers instead of names. You”—he pointed at De’Vere—“will be One, you”—he aimed his finger at Carre—“Two … No, wait … Mother Nature has already given you a number, you clone-of-a-bitching spawn, so you’ll be, as God and Daddy—forgive me—the Donor wanted, Four. That makes Kolczuk Three, and Mr.—urgh—Sodomita Two. Cadet Stachursky remains Cadet Stachursky, unless and until I have a yen to change it, and will be the liaison between the captain and the numbered crew, meaning that none of you will ever address me directly without my express permission. All of you will communicate with me exclusively via Cadet Stachursky. Furthermore, none of you numbers, unless you are ordered to, have access to the upper deck. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!” they answered in unison.

If nothing else, at least the Academy instilled discipline into all its cadets.

“And in case anyone wonders what these numbers mean, I’ll explain it right away,” continued the captain. “It’s an old custom in frontline vessels. When I issue the order, for example, to go into open space, I won’t have to point a finger, or call anyone by name. Number One goes first, and if he fucks up—meaning he buys it—he’s followed by Number Two, then Three and so on. Is that clear?”

This time, the response was not quite so unanimous.

“Bog off!” yelled Morrisey. “Cadet Stachursky will stay with us for a moment longer, though.”

“Do you know, son, why I ordered you to stay?” asked the captain after the other cadets had left the bridge.

“No, sir!” answered Stachursky truthfully.

“You really don’t know?”

“Really, sir!” Nike tried to think something up on the spot, but he had no idea what his new commanding officer was getting at.

Morrisey put the cadet out of his misery.

“I’ve seen your file, so I know you’re one of the aces of the fucking orbital Academy. It’s unfortunate that you chose the wrong hole and fucked, ha-ha”—the captain’s laugh turned out to be infectious—“literally fucked up your own life. But you aren’t stupid, quite the opposite, so you’ll quickly find out that not everything they say about the Recycling Corps is true. And since this is the way things are I’d rather suggest a deal right away.”

Iarrey, the navigator, the chaplain, and the lieutenant responsible for the weapons systems, who seemed to be called Bourne—that much could be deciphered from his dirty name tag—and who up till then had been silent, surrounded the disorientated cadet.

“What kind of deal, sir?” Nike inquired tentatively.

“Do you know why all the battles of the Unification War and generally all the skirmishes in space occurred in the vicinity of the Lagrangian points?” the captain asked out of nowhere.

“In theory—” Nike began, deciding to play safe.

“Go on.”

“During our lectures we were told it had something to do with tactics, but the truth is probably that no one was thrilled by the thought of a slow and anonymous death in a cosmic void far from any routes. For which reason the captains preferred to fight in places called libration points or Lagrangian points in honor of—”

“Keep it brief, son,” the captain cut in.

“—to fight in gravitational zones where damaged and annihilated craft will remain for a long time, creating something like asteroid fields or belts, somewhat resembling the rings of Saturn, owing to which one can hope with a fair degree of probability for search and rescue operations. That is also why, since the beginning of the conquest of space, all tactics have involved static warfare. No heavy vessel joined battle at speeds exceeding zero point zero zero four standard light speed, in order not to break out of the Lagrangian point following destruction.”

“And what does it mean in practice?”

“In practice it means that almost all the vessels destroyed in battle are still orbiting in L-points, assuming they haven’t broken out of the gravitational trap as a result of unforeseen circumstances and fallen onto the surface of nearby planets.”

Nike thought of Dredd and his eighty-year odyssey in a rescue capsule. Had it not been for that tactic, the Admiral would long ago have become a lump of frozen meat drifting through the unending void, or a gorgeous meteor slicing through the sky of a distant planet.

“Excellent,” Morrisey laughed heartily. “A very apt conclusion, Cadet Stachursky. And what does that mean for us?”

“We don’t need to work our backsides off.”

“That’s true, but—”

“—but a smart, pretty boy like you ought to know by now that one can make a good living out of it.”

That was the moment Nike understood why the lieutenant responsible for the weapons systems seldom spoke. Bourne’s high-pitched, squeaky voice was particularly hard on the ears.

“We’ll offer you a small share of the profits in exchange for total and complete obedience, and looking after that trash.” The captain nodded toward the elevator door through which the remaining cadets had disappeared a moment before.

“A share of the profits, sir?” repeated Nike.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Morrisey, just like the other crew members, seemed sincerely amused. “If you play by the High Command’s rules you live a quiet life. If you play by ours, the job may be fucking dangerous”—he held up his hand, showing his electronic prosthesis—“but fucking profitable, too. You’ll do your time onboard the Nomad and a tasty bonus to your pension will be waiting for you.”

“And the numbers will do most of the dirty work for us anyway,” added Iarrey.

“The fact is we have specialized robots,” explained the captain, “but they are bloody expensive. Destroying a machine like that means tons of detailed reports, which often go beyond the investigative department. The death of a lowest rank cadet means only a letter to the parents, a medal, and, very rarely, some paltry financial compensation—”

“Plus, the greater the losses in action, the better,” whispered Annataly almost sensually, leaning toward Nike’s ear.

“The more dead, the more moronic are the people willing to work in the Recycling Corps,” Morrisey took up the subject. “But no one weeps over the casualties, particularly not top brass who get a tidy bonus from our scam. Especially considering that we save them a bunch of hassle with … let’s not beat about the bush … academic refuse.”

“If I understand right,” said the candidate for shareholder in Nomad & Co., “first we penetrate and then we destroy?”

“Penetrate? I like the way your mind works, Nike.” The captain smiled at his own thoughts. “Spatial archaeology is a wonderful field of science, particularly if you have backup in the form of top-secret maps and access to all the Fleet’s archives …” Morrisey trailed off. “Are you in or not?”

“What will happen if I turn the offer down?” Nike asked cautiously.

“I made Dredd a promise, and I’m a man of my word.” The calm, even humorous answer was a clear threat. “I only break a promise when it’s in my interests to do so.”

“I get it.” Nike looked his commanding officer in the eye and nodded. “I’m in. That only leaves one matter—”

“Two,” the captain interrupted him bluntly.

“Two?” Nike said in surprise.

“Yes. First of all, the financial aspect. To avoid misunderstandings. You know what they say: let’s love each other like brothers, but reckon up like clones. You’ll get ten percent of the profit from all joint operations and fifty percent from your own.”

“Okay.” The offer seemed fair, and anyway in his current situation Nike would have agreed to any deal, even much worse.

Morrisey suddenly grew serious.

“Second, boy …” That boy sounded ominous. “Lieutenant Davidoff-Rozerer is the only woman onboard, and as you probably realize, she’s mine, and only mine. I’m not good ol’ Uncle Dredd and I won’t spend half a semester wondering how to whip your arse in a sophisticated manner. If I discover just one—never mind how tiny—trace of your presence in her, I’ll—” He made a gesture with his prosthesis which might have meant anything. “Got it, Mr. Daughterfucker?”

Nike glanced furtively at the navigator’s jumpsuit—or more precisely at the body, which the tight piece of shiny material was covering. Then he looked straight in Bourne’s twinkling eyes. He did not smile back.

“Got it,” he nodded, and reached for his kitbag. “By your leave, sir.”

“Just a moment …” The captain’s searching gaze was still on him.

“Yes, sir?”

“Your name. Nike. Why don’t you have a standard double-barrel, like every decent person?” Morrisey asked.

“I do, sir,” Nike answered.

“So why don’t you use it then?” Annataly looked genuinely shocked.

“I do. It’s formed from Nik and Ike.

“Ha, I know an Ikenneth, but I’m sure Nick’s spelt differently,” Iarrey butted in.

“My father’s family came from the New Russian sector, which is why the first part’s spelt differently,” Nike explained. “After some famous—God knows how many ‘greats’—grandfather. He was supposed to have been a successful author on Earth around the end of the Old Era.”

THREE

THE NEW ROUEN SYSTEM, VICTOR SECTOR

06/27/2354

They left hyperspace a long way from the star shown on the Federation’s maps as Victor 3A13, a dozen or so degrees beyond the ecliptic plane, at the edge of the calculated safety field. The Nomad’s captain preferred to enter the system at a neutral point, in order to fly to the distant Delta, keeping well away from any deep-space debris. Today, when state-of-the-art navigational systems could calculate jumps with the accuracy of the location of the departure point from subspace close to a billion miles per light-year, they could approach any system without the need of using wormholes and the risk of coming across the remains of battles waged ages ago, or flying straight into a trap set by long-dead defenders. All they needed was to travel down a traditional route to the neighboring planetary system and make the last jump using tachyonic hyperspace drive. There was a downside to this, though, and a serious one at that—the flight at subluminal speed had to be longer, because the points of departure were usually located very far from the destination.

On the third standard day after arriving in the system, Morrisey showed up on the upper deck and right away dropped into the worn-out commander’s chair. Annataly was still reading off data from distant reconnaissance probes, which had been shot off toward all the libration points in the system two days earlier. Iarrey was cataloguing the results, and Bourne and Nike were biding their time at the spare control panels, occasionally checking selected readings. The chaplain and the other cadets had still not been woken. Before the rest came out of hibernation, the Nomad’s automated systems had examined the entire planetary system. Now all that was left for people to do was to analyze the data and get to work.

“When will we have the full picture?” Morrisey asked, having fastened his seatbelt.

“In around five standard minutes,” Iarrey answered.

Morrisey nodded, stuck a lump of something olive green into his mouth and started to chew on it.

“I’m waiting, First Officer,” he said suddenly, and then spat into the grating beneath the main screen.

“It hasn’t even been a minute,” Iarrey replied, slightly ruffled.

“All depends on how you look at it,” the captain retorted enigmatically, activating the panoramicon.

The curved walls of the bridge changed color and in a few seconds became transparent. During so-called transparent flight close to a planet, disorientation affects a few percent of experienced astronauts, but in space it’s not a problem. Nothing disturbs the inner ear, particularly when the equipment on the bridge allows one to establish reference points, hypothetical vertical and horizontal planes.

The center of a planetary system with a single G4-type star was directly in front of the ship’s bow. The screens displayed the iridescent green orbits of all the planets and their satellites, and the routes of most heavenly bodies passing through the proximal space in their eternal trek through the Universe, which were marked in red. There was some deep-space debris, but not enough to spoil the impression of being out in a vacuum.

“We have the proper cluster in orbit of the system’s fourth planet,” Iarrey said. “The parameters agree with the baseline data. Most of the wreckage, around ninety-seven percent of predicted mass, remains in the zone. However, I have a few readings outside the L-point. Some of the scrap is already beginning to get out of the gravitational trap. Just a few more years, and—”

“Don’t get carried away, Iarrey,” the captain interrupted him. “What about the mines?”

“The probes were sent forty-seven hours ago, and we’ve localized traces of sixteen of the twenty fields mentioned in the intercepted reports of the colonists. The four remaining ones may not exist any longer.”

“As far as I know, no entire minefield has ever disappeared or been detonated,” the captain murmured, clawing his prosthesis. “I’m not moving my arse from here until you have all the obstacles located.”

Iarrey shrugged and continued to check the data on his control panel.

“What do we do with the fields we’ve located?” he asked a moment later.

“What do you think? Get rid of the shit.”

You can’t hear anything in a vacuum, but the views are gorgeous was how the Academy’s lecturers praised the system navigation. Now their words took on a new light. The myriads of nanoscouts accompanying the probes entered the nuclear minefields, which had been planted a hundred and thirty years earlier to prevent access. The inky-black void suddenly flashed with an explosion of colors. It wasn’t anything like a firework display, but it was nonetheless enchanting. Dozens of explosions merging with one another, slowly waning plasma, a halo with colors much more vivid than a rainbow’s. Had today’s technology existed a century before, strike team number one would have cut through the minefield like a laser beam through paper. Unfortunately, Admiral Tahomey could only rely on luck, which is why today some one hundred and eighty wrecks of various kinds were orbiting a planet whose original name no one remembered anymore.

“We’ve got coordinates for the remains of the four minefields, which were entered by strike team number one,” announced Annataly, who had also begun processing the data. “Actually they don’t exist. The wrecks detonated most of the mines left after the first pass, and the ones that didn’t explode then are sure not to go off now.”

“You can never be sure, honey bunny,” Morrisey muttered. “Do you have any readings for active mines left inside the junk belt?”

“No more than ten,” Annataly replied.

“Do we have visuals?”

“Sure.”

On the panoramicon appeared images showing the distribution of hypothetically undetonated mines. All the representations were calibrated so as not to disorientate the viewers. Suddenly, the Delta grew much bigger, as though in a fraction of a second they had traveled millions of miles. Then they “moved” quickly around the globe, switching to the frequencies used by different probes.

“Mr. Bourne?”

The short question was enough for the officer to treat everyone to a brief lecture on how to neutralize each mine. It was packed full of technical terminology and mathematical formulae, but the point was straightforward and could have been expressed in a few words: they couldn’t use the collapsars for remote gathering in of all the wreckage without running the risk of random explosions and spreading the remains outside the zone.

“When will the H-probes be in place?” Morrisey asked.

“The first wave is already in orbit, the mapping of the libration point was finished fifteen minutes ago,” Iarrey answered calmly as usual.

The microprobes of the holovisualization network allowed them to create a 3D map of the whole zone and to assess the situation.

“Let’s have a look.” The first officer switched the panoramicon over to the view transmitted by the probes’ synchronized cameras.

In the blink of an eye they were right in the center of the junk belt. The wrecked ships and flotsam created a dense field spreading out over an area of thousands of cubic miles around the Lagrangian point, in the form of an amazing—and quite solid—metal and plastic structure. Only shreds remained of the majority of the vessels, particularly the smaller ones; destruction initiated by the enemy’s lasers had been completed by Nature itself. Endless collisions with neighboring wrecks had transformed the once proud ships into a scrap heap. The crew members of the Nomad watched a series of similar images in silence. From time to time they could make out the torn-open and disemboweled hulls of corvettes and destroyers. Too damaged, however, to be worth taking a closer look.

“Welcome to Monsieur Lagrange’s hell,” Morrisey commented sarcastically. “Here the treasures of the past await their discoverers, and death—losers.”

While the probes were transmitting almost identical images of the field of a long-forgotten battle that had been fought a hundred and thirty years earlier, Iarrey was localizing further mines and preparing to remotely detonate the ones which didn’t have bulks of scrap in their vicinity.

They scoured the zone systematically, but it was fifteen minutes before anything caught their eye. The plump hull of an ancient battleship sailed majestically out of the planet’s shadow cone. Morrisey, who was just entering the activation codes for more nanoscouts, immediately ordered the image to be projected onto the main screen and had less important information removed from it. The nearest probes were only a few miles from the well-preserved bow of the battleship, which meant that Nike could easily read off the clearly visible number and even part of the name, which for many people was still a symbol of the victorious fight for unification. The huge battleship seemed untouched. Even the impact of the heavy fragments of other vessels couldn’t damage such a powerful sheathing—and they hadn’t yet seen any wrecks bigger than the flagship’s in this part of the libration point. The battleship, revolving slowly around its axis, soon filled the entire screen. It seemed to be sailing right under the Nomad’s bridge, although in reality over a billion miles still separated the two ships.

Morrisey sprawled in his chair, smiling imperiously.

“Mr. Stachursky, what do we have here?” he asked.

“FSS Odin, pennant number BS 61, Admiral Tahomey’s flagship,” Nike recited from memory. “One million one hundred sixty thousand tons of displacement mass, actual hull length eight hundred ten yards, diameter at its widest point seventy-two yards, weaponry …”

“That’s enough,” Morrisey interrupted, still grinning. “To put it briefly, this is our El Dorado! Timeworn, but not exhausted.”

The captain’s prosthesis pointed at the screen.

Right then they saw the darkened, jagged edges of just one of many immense holes in the sheathing, which extended from amidships to the narrowing of the propulsion section.

FOUR

Less than a hundred hours later, drifting at the edge of the libration point with the deflectors at full power, they watched up close the melted sheathing around the dark hole leading straight into the wreck. The outer layer of frozen helon took incredibly beautiful shapes. The evaporating white-hot metal had hardened in a split second in contact with the absolutely cold vacuum. Many of these fragile sculptures had been destroyed during the wreck’s century-long passage through space, but several had been preserved remarkably well. They could admire one of them in full close up now. A geyser of molten metal had spurted from the wreck’s innards and solidified in the eternal frost, creating a shape in which a human form was clear even for someone devoid of imagination. The helon giant was pointing its outstretched arms toward the perfect blackness of space. There were more limbs than necessary, and one might have caviled at the proportions, but nonetheless this masterpiece didn’t seem any more avant-garde than the sculptures gracing the fashionable contemporary art galleries on the Federation’s planets.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Morrisey pointed at the crystal-white melted helon. “As though Mother Nature wanted to warn us―”

The piercing wail of an alarm siren interrupted him. Iarrey lunged for the control panel and with one slap restored silence on the bridge; a silence that was immediately filled with the shouts of the crew members.

“Shut your traps, you clones-of-bitches!” Henrichard Morrisey’s shrilling voice was as effective as Iarrey’s hand a moment before. “First Officer, report!”

“Active mine on a collision course,” whispered Iarrey. Everyone heard him quite clearly in the deadly silence.

“So what?” the captain snarled contemptuously at him. “It’s not the first and it won’t be the last. What is that junk anyway?”

“M7.” The first officer still didn’t raise his voice.

Morrisey blanched; all saw it.

“Patient Death,” Nike murmured.

Thus had that kind of plasma mine been christened years ago and thus was it still called. Planted by rebels in the last phase of the conflict, chiefly in the proximity of the Federation’s transport nodes, they were capable of lying in wait, perfectly camouflaged, for decades; and so they took a bloody toll on the stellar routes long after their creators had surrendered. They hung someplace in space, concealed in their designated positions, waiting for that one and only victim, even though the war was long over. Left to themselves, forgotten, but utterly self-sufficient, self-homing, and almost indestructible smart, powerful high explosives against which there was no defense.

“What are the readings?” Morrisey asked in a much less confident voice.

“It locked on to us eight seconds ago,” Iarrey replied. “It’s a classic rebel tech.”

“Distance?”

“Seven hundred and fifty clicks to the blast zone and falling.”

“Honey …”

“I have all the coordinates. I’m slowing our approach.”

“How much time left?” the captain asked.

“Seven minutes tops, if Annataly knows what she’s doing.” Iarrey needed a few seconds to answer the question.

“Watch your own arse,” cornet-pilot Davidoff-Rozerer pouted.

Morrisey, who had already put himself together, looked at the cadet.

“Any suggestions?” he asked.

“The best tactic in this case is to reduce approach speed to a minimum, send out a distress signal, and abandon ship in the stern rescue capsules before the craft enters the blast zone, sir!” Nike trotted out obediently.

“Sure, sure.” A grimace somewhat resembling a smile appeared on the captain’s face. “That’s what the textbooks say. We love this tub like our own home and we’d rather die than let it be damaged, wouldn’t we?”

The rest of the crew nodded, without much conviction, though.

“So what would the army do in this case?”

Nike said nothing. The captain spat on the grille, activating the extractors.

“Number One, put on a spacesuit,” Morrisey said after a moment of awkward silence, “and go to the bow airlock. Numbers Two and Three will wait in full kit in the port and starboard secondary airlocks. Number Four will go to the hold by the rootler. Kitted out in a full spacesuit, too. We’ll defuse the mine during our approach. You’ve got a minute to carry out my orders.”

Morrisey got up from his chair before finishing. Nike didn’t even flinch when the Nomad’s captain disappeared behind his back. The foul odor of grease mixed with the spicy smell of the stuff he never stopped chewing told the cadet his new superior officer had stopped right behind him.

“But waking them will take—” Nike felt a shiver run down his back.

“True, Cadet. The problem is the numbers are still sleeping soundly and the only crew member we can sacrifice right now is you.” He heard the captain’s voice just behind his right ear.

“I beg to report, sir, that the use of inexperienced cadets to defuse smart mines of this class would be suicide,” Nike answered, trying to stay calm.

He was aware of his abilities, which weren’t much greater than those of the other four cadets. He also precisely knew the parameters of the mine standing in their path. That combination didn’t leave a shadow of doubt.

“True.” This time, Morrisey’s voice was behind his left ear. “Have I never mentioned I really am one nasty bastard?” the captain asked and suddenly snorted with laughter.

Surprised by his reaction Nike shuddered involuntarily, feeling a slight spray of saliva on his ear and the back of his cropped head. He glanced nervously at the other crew members. They didn’t look as worried as they had a moment earlier.

“M7, Patient Death, armed and dangerous,” the captain continued, amused, appearing in Nike’s line of vision again. “Do you know what it really means?”

Nike shook his head.

“It’s an absolute guarantee that no one has ever rummaged around in our giant’s bowels,” Morrisey smiled meaningfully. “The Mark Seven is a terrifying weapon, which sowed terror in the hearts of our crews. A ruthless killer you can’t escape from. Unless you happen to have …”

He turned and raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

“… the deactivation codes?” Nike finished the sentence timidly.

“Excellent, my young friend!” the captain slapped his back and laughed aloud. “High Command was kind enough to supply us with the available set of code tables, both ours and the rebels’. All we have to do is decipher the code sent with the localization signal, give the appropriate response sequence, and our M7 will become a regular pile of scrap, and our numbered buddies won’t wake up before we’re back from rifling through our untouched haul of treasure. You won’t be asking for time to change your underwear, will you?”

“Treat that joke as a baptism of fire,” Annataly added. “We usually do it to the numbers, but sometimes one has to make do …”

Nike smiled, seeing the amused expressions of the others, but frowned just a moment later. If they wanted some fun they’d get some.

“You mentioned the available set of tables. Does that mean we don’t have all the codes?”

He noticed with unalloyed pleasure that sweat beaded the forehead of the gorgeous navigator, Iarrey rushed to the control panels, and Morrisey paled once again. This time, the captain didn’t even have to pretend.

FIVE

They entered the wreck through the widest breach. Two teams of two plus transport robots. Bourne was with Iarrey. Their job was to investigate the lower decks, or actually the only section in that part of the ship that hadn’t been totally destroyed. The other team, consisting of Morrisey and Nike, had to check the bow part of the battleship’s upper decks. Annataly was monitoring the operation from the Nomad’s bridge.

They searched cabins, passageways, and holds, loading on the transport drones everything that hadn’t been sucked into space after the crash. Morrisey didn’t seem to attach much importance to searching and opening successive cabins; before Nike had finished loading up the required objects, the captain would disappear into the next passageway, checking the readings on his holopad.

Two standard hours after boarding the wreck, having moved along elevator shafts, they reached the main passageway connecting the bridge to the officers’ living quarters. The arched, undamaged vault stretched away for fifty yards, ending in a massive bulkhead.

“Bingo,” Morrisey muttered, gliding farther down the passageway and shining his torch onto the ceiling, section by section. “The bridge seems unharmed. Give me the coder and a mobile reactor, right now.”

The captain, staring at the wall of solid helon, didn’t take notice of the cadet’s silence at first. Eventually he realized Nike hadn’t heard his instructions. “What the fuck …”

He started to turn around and only then did he see what the beam of light from his partner’s suit torch was pointing at. The door of the nearest elevator wasn’t closed: a boot of a spacesuit was sticking out, the electromagnetic studs on its sole clearly visible.

“Nike?” Morrisey sounded serious. “Can you hear me, boy?”

There was no answer. The cadet hadn’t even moved.

“Nike, you clone-of-a-bitch!” the captain roared, achieving the desired effect.

“Yes, sir?”

“What are you staring at? Never seen a dead body?”

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Well, that’s one debut out of the way.” Morrisey flew up to the door, stuck both gloved hands in the gap and tried to move it. It would not budge.

“Annataly, can you hear me?” he switched to the bridge’s frequency. “I need a repair drone.”

There was no response for a few seconds, but the navigator answered before the captain became impatient.

“Iarrey’s breaking into some chambers, he’ll be done in five minutes.”

“Five minutes, galacticunt!” The captain turned around and looked at the bulkhead. “Okay, get me another coder and a reactor. I also have a little door to open.”

“I’m on it, sir.” This time, the answer was fast and concise.

“And you—stop twiddling your thumbs.” Morrisey slapped the cadet on the arm. “Use the scope to check there aren’t any more of these inside.”

Reluctantly, Nike did as he was told. He flew over to the gap, cautiously, and fed a telescopic camera into the cylindrical cage. A moment later, he had an image of the interior. The man whose boot they had seen was in the elevator alone. His suit appeared to be intact, at least on the surface. Nike communicated the information to the captain. It was ignored, just as he had expected. Morrisey, whistling merrily to himself, was unscrewing the casing of the scanner panel by the lock. Nike resumed his observation of the elevator’s interior. In spite of being trained to fight, he shuddered at the presence of a dead person, or, to be more precise, the corpse lying literally at arm’s length. Many people had died in that battle, some sucked out of the mutilated hulls, others burnt alive or vaporized in reactor explosions, but this man must have had a lingering death. He continued to live, imprisoned in the wreck, until the air in his tanks ran out. Six or even ten hours …

“Well?” Morrisey’s voice brought Nike out of his reverie again. “Show me what we’ve got here.”

The captain steered the camera for a while and then suddenly whistled. He looked down the passageway where the coding robot was just plugging into the bulkhead’s panel. The massive cube of the mobile plasma reactor had already been connected up and all the lights in the entire section came on. Morrisey smacked the glowing red call button on the elevator, but it still didn’t react. The mechanism had frozen over a hundred years earlier, so there was no chance of it working.

“Ann!” the captain yelled into the comlink, as though he’d been bitten in the backside. “Get me that drone down here!”

“But Iarrey’s still not—”

“And he’s never going to. Tell him to cut a passage through with your nail file. I’ve got something awesome here and I need that drone right now!”

“You’ve got it, sir.”

Nike looked at the irate captain in confusion.

“What did you see there, sir?” he finally asked.

“It’s one of Tahomey’s staff officers,” Morrisey answered, and added at once, “If you’d looked closer at what’s sticking out from under the body, you’d have seen what might be the last ship’s hololog. And that, my dear, is worth an unbelievable fortune on Earth. And I saw it first. You snooze you lose.” He poked a metal finger into the cadet’s chest.

“Yes, sir!”

A moment later, the shaft through which they had reached the main passageway lit up in a pale-green glow. A massive repair drone emerged from inside and froze two feet away from them. Morrisey plugged the end of his programmer into the reader and the huge robot began moving again. Its long pincers plunged into the gap. For a while nothing happened, or at least it seemed that way. Sound didn’t carry in a vacuum, but the chips of paint floating away from the oval door told the two men that immense force was being applied to its surface. Just in case, Morrisey pulled the cadet farther into the passageway, yet still nothing happened. The mechanism had either jammed for good, or something else was blocking the door.

“We’ll cut it,” the captain decided, and the drone obediently extended a burner.

Twenty seconds later, almost half of the metal plate blocking the way to the elevator was hanging by the wall of the passageway, and Morrisey was dragging the body from the cage through the freshly cut opening. The captain’s triumphant expression vanished in an instant when he saw what the corpse was holding.

“Shit!” he said throwing the obsolete electronic notebook toward the deck. “The diary of …” He looked at the name tag. “Major Visolay, fucking moron, who couldn’t even get into an elevator properly. What kind of name is that anyway?”