Jack McDevitt - SEEKER

Actually, I didn’t. “Are you?”

“No! I’ve never harmed anyone. Never would.”

“Is there anything else, Doctor?”

“Maybe I should have realized. When it happened the same day you got back. And now this.” He hesitated. “Are you there alone?”

“Yes,” I said. “Why would you care?”

The lines in his face were sharply defined. Maybe it was the lighting. Or maybe he was scared. “Be careful,” he said.

It didn’t sound like a threat.

I called Windy. “Have you heard anything from Bolton?”

“No,” she said. “Why?”

“I just talked to him. He didn’t bite.”

“I thought you guys were underestimating him.”

“Yeah. Looks like.”

“Have I your permission now to get rid of the contact? The director isn’t happy walking on eggshells.”

“Yes. Of course. Do what you have to.” She looked annoyed. “You okay?”

“Yes. I’m sorry the creep is going to get away with it.”

“I know. Me, too.”

I debated letting Alex know about the call from Bolton, but decided to let it go. I could tell him when he got home. I didn’t want him reminded of it when he was supposed to be taking time off.

Two days later, Windy told me Brankov had landed on Margolia and begun excavations. “They’re into one of the sites,” she said. “It’s down about thirty, forty meters under the jungle floor.”

“How’s the weather?”

“Wet and hot.”

“Not good conditions.” Anything left by the settlers would have turned to mush.

An hour later she released the first statement on the findings. It included a picture of Brankov holding a rock that was reasonably smooth on one side and that he said had once been part of a wall.

That evening, speaking at a dinner of corporate types, the director described his reactions to the news and added how pleased he was with the contributions made by Alex Benedict, noting that he’d been “exemplary in his efforts” to protect the sites.

That was too much for Kolchevsky, who erupted again that evening. But he’d become old news, so he didn’t get much play. But he’d drummed up some allies, and there was evidence a new push was on to criminalize artifact retrieval unless it was done under license from an authoritative source. Alex had always insisted that such a law could not be passed, that it was essentially unenforceable. When I mentioned it to Windy, she surprised me. “You’ll find out eventually,” she said, “so I might as well tell you. I’m one of the backers. I think we have a good chance to get it through.”

I don’t know why it took me off guard. She reminded me that Survey had always been willing to help Rainbow, but “you guys never seem to have enough.” She caught herself. Shook her head. Smiled. “Sorry.”

Next day, she patched through a call from Spike Numitsu. He was speaking from what appeared to be an operations center. “Alex,” he said, “the explosion on the Seeker took place in 2742. Early in the year. We’re going to take a look at the engine room tomorrow. I’ll let you know what we find.”

I relayed it to Alex, who was relaxed in beach clothes with a glass of wine in his hand.

He was on a veranda, and I could see the ocean in the background.

“How about that?” he said, obviously pleased. “Chase, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“Twenty-seven forty-two.”

“I’m not following.”

“Do you recall when it happened?” He was talking about the near intersection of the orbits of the dock, the moon, and Margolia. The date of the disaster.

“Yes. It was 2745.”

“Three years after the Seeker died.”

“So what’s your point?”

“Chase, they had at least three years’ warning. Think about that. Three years to save themselves.”

“They tried,” I said. “They rebuilt the Seeker. It didn’t work.”

“You think they’d have given up that easily?”

“ Given up? Come on, Alex. They were in an impossible situation. Once the Seeker exploded they had no interstellar capability. FTL communications didn’t exist. What do you think they might have done?”

“Chase, they had some bright people with them. They had technicians, physicists, engineers. They knew how FTL drives worked.”

“Doesn’t do them any good if they can’t build one.”

“But they had three years.”

“You keep saying that. I don’t see how it matters. It takes a highly advanced industrial base to produce the kind of energy they’d need. You can’t do it out in the woods, no matter how smart your people are.” I’d talked with Harry Williams often enough that the whole thing frustrated me. If these people were so smart, why didn’t they check the neighborhood before they moved out there? And took their kids with them? “No.” Alex shook his head. Something off to the side caught his attention. “I’ve got to go, Chase. But we’re still missing something.”

I forgot to tell him about Bolton’s call.

Less than an hour later, as I was closing up for the day, Bolton was back on the circuit.

“He’s not back yet,” I told him. “Two or three more days.”

“This can’t wait.”

“What’s wrong, Ollie?” He looked so unsettled I forgot my resentment.

“I don’t want to talk over an open circuit. Will you meet me someplace?”

“Come on, Ollie. I’m busy.”

“Please. It’s important.”

I let him see I was unhappy. “When and where?”

“Brockbee’s okay? At eight?”

“Make it seven.”

I keep fresh clothes at the country house, so I didn’t have to bother going home. I showered and changed and even though I didn’t think Ollie could be a physical threat, I slipped a scrambler into my jacket. I took the company skimmer and, just as the sun was touching the horizon, I headed for town.

Brockbee’s is a private club. It’s located behind a high wall, and, because it’s a favorite hangout of political and corporate heavyweights and celebrities of various stripes, security is serious. They queried me on approach. I gave them my name and explained I was meeting Dr. Bolton.

“One moment, please.” I went into a slow circle over the rooftop landing pad. “Very good, Ms. Kolpath. Welcome to Brockbee’s. Please turn control over to us. We’ll bring you in.”

Minutes later I strolled into the dining room. The host informed me Dr. Bolton hadn’t arrived yet, but he showed me to my table. It was precisely seven o’clock.

Twenty minutes later I was still sitting there. A house avatar came by and asked whether I would like something to drink while I waited. Or perhaps an appetizer. “We have some excellent hors d’oeuvres this evening.”

I passed.

At the half hour I debated calling him, but decided the hell with it. On my way out I told the host to give Bolton my compliments if he showed up.

Carmen’s voice woke me out of a sound sleep. “You have a call, Chase. It sounds important.”

My first thought was that it was Bolton.

“Inspector Redfield,” she said.

It was still dark out. What on earth did he want? Then I got a premonition that something had happened to Alex. I grabbed my robe and hurried out into the living room. “Put him on, Carmen.”

He appeared from the front seat of a police cruiser. Looking a bit frazzled. “Chase,” he said. “Sorry to bother you at this ungodly hour.”

“It’s okay, Fenn. What is it?”

He made a face. Bad news coming. “Ollie Bolton’s dead,” he said. “Somebody cut a fuel line in his skimmer.”

I needed a moment to digest what he’d said. Bolton dead? It seemed impossible.

“When?” I asked.

“We’re still putting it together. But it looks like a few hours ago. Apparently he lifted off, got up a little bit, and the thing shut down. Crashed on his own property.