6

Commander Grottor stood at the helm, hands clasped behind his broad back. There was nothing about his stance to suggest that he was anything but relaxed, but within his head the thoughts spun back and forth. He knew altogether too little about the project to be comfortable. He was not sure exactly what he was getting into.

He turned and looked behind him. There on the bridge to one side was a technician named Jane Haley. She was young, fairly fresh out of the academy, but smart and ambitious. He had seen her scores—off the charts—and read the reports on her and chosen her. Indeed, the whole crew was handpicked by Grottor, excellent crew, notable as well for being willing to follow commands to the letter and for their unquestioning loyalty. Though he had chosen Ensign Haley precisely because she was not like that, because she might stand up to him when the others would not.

On the other side of Grottor was Ensign Erik Orthor, a thin and tubercular man who was the only person that Grottor hadn’t chosen as part of his crew. Blackwell had insisted on him, which made Grottor wonder if Blackwell trusted him. He’d done what Blackwell and the two somewhat odd men he’d introduced him to had asked of him, but perhaps Blackwell still had his doubts as to his loyalty. Grottor was a good commander, inflexible in his own way, but smart enough to get out of scrapes when he needed to. And working for Blackwell, he often needed to.

Orthor too was a Unitologist. That was fine—Grottor technically was, too, but in name only. It had been one way up the promotion ladder and he had joined because it was expedient at the time. He didn’t believe in it exactly, but he’d seen enough of the footage and records from Michael Altman’s time to know that there had been power to the Marker. Blackwell, too, he imagined, wasn’t much of a believer, maybe wasn’t even a Unitologist at all, but he saw the potential for power as well. And those others, the ones who went unnamed but seemed really to be the ones in charge—he’d met them only once, but once had been enough.

Yes, he knew too much about the project to be comfortable. He was to locate a planet for a secret facility that would allow for the continuation of the Marker project. What all the specifics of that continuation would be, he didn’t know, but the fact that they wanted to make sure the planet was uncharted, away from the usual trade routes, and far from civilization, told him it wasn’t good. With Blackwell he had chosen several likely planets, but had rejected them one after another. The last on the list they were approaching now. It was one Blackwell had hesitated over for some reason, but had finally said yes, go ahead.

It was listed as uninhabited. No breathable atmosphere, but Earthlike gravity. They had approached it and circled around it, and had been surprised to find signs of life, a small colony of some sort, completely enclosed. It was small enough that he’d almost missed it, but Haley, with her sharp eyes, had caught it. Except for that the planet was perfect. He double-checked—it wasn’t in any records; they were illegals.

“Do we recommend it, sir?” asked Haley.

“No,” said Grottor. A colony, even an illegal colony, wasn’t possible. Who knew what connection they might have to other people in other places, and when someone might come looking for relatives they had down there. No, it wasn’t secure.

“So what do we do, then?” asked Haley.

Grottor shrugged. “We keep looking,” he said.

*   *   *

When the vid sounded, it was one of the two men Blackwell had introduced him to, the one with cruel eyes and grayish skin. He cut right to the point. “I hear you’ve rejected Aspera,” he said. “Care to explain?”

“There’s an uncharted colony there,” said Grottor. “It won’t do.”

The man shook his head. “It’s not a colony,” he said.

“No,” said Grottor. “Then what is it?”

“A containment facility. We have a share in it. Apart from that, Commander, is everything else about the planet up to specification?”

He referred to Haley’s notes, gave a rundown to the man. Yes, everything did seem to be right, everything else was fine.

“Then we’ll move forward,” said the man. “You’re to contact Tim Fischer on Vindauga. He’s one of us, and very discreet. He supervises the shipping for the containment facility. He’ll arrange to have building supplies shipped out, ostensibly for the containment facility, but in actuality for you.” He looked more closely at Grottor. His eyes narrowed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Grottor said.

“You can speak freely,” claimed the man.

“It seems like a risk factor,” Grottor said. “Word of the project could get out through them or the guards in the facility. In addition, there’s the risk of what might happen if the project goes awry and there’s an outbreak.”

“They’re prisoners and they’re in a secret containment facility,” said the man.

“Yes?”

“That means they’re expendable,” the man simply said.

Grottor nodded curtly.

“Besides,” said the man, “we might need human subjects.”

For a moment Grottor was silent. Then “Yes, sir,” he finally replied.