A Memory in the Black (The New Aeneid Cycle) (3 page)

"Oh
eight hundred, security reasons," she heard Nicholas quote behind her. "Look out guys, we've been drafted."

"Is that a complaint, Mr
. Boyd?"

"Heh. Just observing.
" He flashed a puerile grin.

"Good," she told him. "You have
not been drafted, but will be expected to adhere to all guidelines set by the Space Agency and myself." She opened the door to the habitat wing and turned to face him. "Such guidelines are in place for ESA security and your own safety. We
are
in space, Mr. Boyd, as a man of your intelligence has certainly determined."

Nicholas chuckled and gave a show of saluting
. "Aye, aye, ma'am. I can be good for awhile."

"If you have a problem doing so
, ESA is perfectly willing to allow you access to a space suit so you may walk home to Earth." Marette allowed herself the luxury of a smirk.

Nicholas laughed a
loud. "Hey, look, Marc!" he cried, clapping Marc on the back, "Our boss has a sense of humor! Ya know, kinda."

Marette
merely smiled. Humor or no, she hoped he would take the warning for what it was. She ushered them through the doorway in silence.

The silence didn't last long.
"Shit!" Nick declared. "We're on the fuckin'
Moon
!"

"Just
clued to that, did you?" Namura asked.

Nicholas laughed again.
"Yeah, hey, I've never been off-planet. Takes a while to sink in."

Marette
sighed inwardly. As one once drawn to the wonder of space herself, she could not blame Nick for being excited. Yet the prospect of having to deal with a boisterous juvenile did not please her. It was some comfort that he would not have been there if he were incompetent, but he was so young.

The first team sh
e had sent inside the ship had met with a massacre. For what might have been the thousandth time, she saw their lifeless bodies on the midnight floor of the entrance. She saw their faces, burned into her memory.

"Much too y
oung," she whispered.

Nearly half an hour later, after getting the three settled in their quarters and filing the appropriate reports, Marette touched the signal key on Marc Triton's door. He opened it a moment later.

She no
dded to his greeting and then stepped through the hatch as he retreated to make room. His luggage and equipment lay out across the compact chamber, covering his bunk and a small countertop that served as a desk. She caught a glimpse of his more personal wardrobe choices before turning to seal the door behind her. Marette rested her back against it a moment later and released a long sigh.

"Rough day?" Triton asked.

"
Oui.
Rough month." She opened her eyes and caught the sympathy in his smile. "Have you ever been the sole operative on any AoA mission, Mr. Triton?"

"Just Marc works fine," he
said. "And, no. Most of what I do's in the privacy of my own home." He closed his bag and sat down on the edge of the bed. His hair was slightly wet; he must have showered after arriving. "I'd guess it's pretty draining being on your guard so much."

"Very much so.
I see others of us from time to time, but I am the only one constantly here."

"I don't imagine you can attend the
Council meetings from here, either."

She shook her head.
"Even without the difficulties it causes the AoA encryption protocols, the transmission delay itself would make real-time attendance problematic at best. I receive transcripts."

Marc nodded.
"We can connect loads of people all around the world to a virtual meeting, but go off-planet and that damn speed of light gets ya."

"I often consider it a reminder of why we are here.
Breaking the barrier," she told him. "You are from Portland?"

"
Actually, Northgate. The AoA figured it'd be best not to give my real address when they got me into this."

"A wise precaution."

Marette studied him for a moment. He was not much taller than she, with a lean, comfortable frame topped with a head of dark brown hair. His hair was trimmed, though she could see the hint of a curl where it grew thicker toward the back. A gentle face was set off by a neat goatee around his mouth and the oblong data visor that formed a shield over his eyes. She wondered what color they were beneath it.

Marette
moved closer and took the seat at the tiny desk. "How much do you know? My briefing was incomplete in that regard."

"Well, obviously not everything makes it to the rest of us, detail-wise."
He pulled something from his pocket. "Lifesaver?" She thanked him but declined the candy, which he put away before continuing. "Long story short, I know the black lining inside the ship is some sort of computer, I know ESA managed an interface of some sort, and I know I'm here to keep a closer eye on things while we try to figure out what's inside. Anything I missed?"

"Just, as you say, detail-wise."
She clasped her hands and tapped her chin. "The ship—ESA has codenamed it '
Paragon
'—would appear to be a product of organic and inorganic engineering. The black material is obviously organic. It effectively breathes carbon dioxide, changing it to oxygen like a plant. ESA believes it may also be part of a complex life support system."

"Pretty ingenious."

She nodded. "Except thus far we have encountered no trace of life to be supported. I expect such traces may be found once we have gained access to the rest of the structure."

"Do you know why the touch gooey stopped opening doors?"

"I am sorry, 'gooey'?"

"Acronym," Marc
said. "Graphical user interface."

"Ah, G-U-I,
oui
." She should not have had to ask him. Technical acronyms in another language. "No, we know not why. There is a debate over whether it is due to our not knowing some code sequence or that further passages are simply designed to be opened by other means."

"What do you think?"

"I think we do not know enough about the language of the interface to be completely certain of anything. Linguistic analysis is still incomplete and is lacking in some key details."

"
So we need a Rosetta Stone."

"
Oui
. That is one objective you and the others will attempt to accomplish, though they will be unaware of this. But any data you find is likely to add to our knowledge."

"And our other objectives?"

"Data about
Paragon
itself. Technical or operational. We have discovered that the organic computer interfaces with the inorganic structure of the craft. There are access ports distributed throughout the walls: small cylindrical sockets that the black material fills in order to interface with the physical structure and control systems. Theoretically. New Eden Biotechnics is working on a synthetic replacement that will allow us to bypass the, ah, alien material by using our own, but it is not yet ready. And without more knowledge of how the two systems relate, it may not be of much use."

"You hesitated on the word
'alien' there," he said. "It's a pretty fitting word, isn't it? This thing didn't come from Earth."

"I
t is fitting. But here?" She shook her head. "The drones inside that ship have killed ten people, Marc. I try not to hurt morale with terms that conjure images of science fiction and horror. There are those who believe that the reason we are unable to open more doors is that something does not wish us to."

Marc nodded, brows furrowing.
"And what do you think?"

Marette paused to
throw her gaze out the room's narrow window. She recalled Alberto, the Agents of Aeneas operative with her during the initial exploration. She heard his scream with the rest of the team when the first drone exterminated them. Marette quickly blocked it from her mind and turned back to Marc. "I think that ESA should not have sent a child to us here."

"N
ick?"

"Nicholas, yes.
Your group will be working in the base outside of the structure. There should be a minimum of risk." Was she trying to reassure him, or herself?

T
he worry that haunted her since the incident swelled up from inside. She pushed it back down out of habit and let out a silent chuckle. "I am used to not talking about this. As you said, it is difficult to be on guard so much. It has become almost automatic." She cursed softly in French, shook her head, and tried to explain. "To speak of feelings is to let the listener in. If someone gets in a little, they could go further. I cannot risk exposing the AoA's position here." She looked for understanding his eyes, but could not see beyond the visor.

"Er, well
." He shrugged with a smile. "I mean, we're both AoA, so, you know, talk away. If you want." He shrugged again.

Marette considered i
t. She trusted him as she would any member of the AoA; the affiliation connected them intimately. Yet her thoughts were too jumbled in the cage she kept them in to come out smoothly.

"
I would not know where to begin. I have been on my guard so long. It is like. . ." She paused to get a handle on the feeling and then decided on impulse, stepping a bit closer. "Like many things, I suppose. A breaking of the ice, or the first time undressing before another. "

Marc chuckled
. Was he uncomfortable? Again, she looked in his eyes out of instinct only to be blocked by the visor.

"May I ask you a question?"
she tried.

"Go ahead."

She reached out and traced the edge of his visor. "Does that thing come off?" He was the first fellow agent she had been face to face with in over a month, and the first man she didn't have to be on her guard around in nearly four times as long. She wanted to see his eyes.

"Er, it comes off. T
hough I'm used to having it on. Functional fashion, I guess." He brushed his fingertips along the edge of the reflective covering. He had very nice hands.

"We all have our walls to hide behind."

He nodded. "Outside of a few friends and the AoA, I guess I'm not really what you'd call a people-person. Mostly I'm behind a computer, so I've usually got it on." He shrugged and then seemed to realize something. "Not that I'm ignoring you, I mean, it's just, background or—it's hard to explain. But if it'd help, I could take it off."

Marette smirked. "You take off your clothing if I take off my own, so to speak?"

He laughed. "If you want to put it that way."

Was he oblivious?
"That is a dangerous topic of conversation, Marc."

His eyebrows furrowed again slightly.
"Er?"

She smiled once more at his.
 . . was it discomfort or merely confusion? It would not be so difficult to slide over onto the bunk where he sat. Not entirely wise, perhaps, but not difficult. "It is curious what an oasis of trust can do when one has been keeping watch in the desert," she whispered.

"How do you mean?" He was forming words again, at least.
Would it be so unfair to indulge in a physical impulse after so many months discipline? Human comfort, that's all it was, but if he was uncomfortable. . .

"There are racquetball courts here at Alpha Station," she
said suddenly. "Do you play racquetball, Marc?"

E
yebrows raised above the visor preceded a reply of, "Not often, but I've played before." He was getting quicker, though still struggling slightly. "Are you suggesting a game, or. . .?"

"I am suggesting a game," she answered as she stood.
"This is my first time away from the site in two weeks, and I am needing, shall we say, exercise."

"I've got a bit o
f energy left in me yet tonight." Marc slapped hands on jeans-covered thighs. "Let's go."

"
Bien
." She smiled. It was either racquetball or something more private, and perhaps it was for the best that the door opened to her touch before she could say so. "And you already have the eye gear."

Marc
awoke with a stretch the following morning to find his thighs burning. The sky was just as black as when he'd gone to bed, but at least the clock told the right story. Well, mostly right. His alarm wasn't set to go off for another half-hour. He'd under-slept.

After putting on his visor to check the familiar readouts of his primary computer
—a book-sized "hip rig" he felt naked without—he hugged his thighs up against his chest and counted to thirty. Marc liked racquetball, but he hadn't played in over two years. The constant bursts of running and stopping on the court had taken their toll. The wrist and ankle weights he'd worn to counter the low gravity likely hadn't helped either. Marette wore them, and he'd told her—and himself—that for him to do otherwise wouldn't be fair; he wanted to play on even ground. Okay, so there was likely a bit of macho pride involved too, but normally he was far from the macho type. A small dose in the name of a fair game wouldn't hurt, right?

They had played four matches in just under an hour, during which time Marette beat him just under five times.
Except for the third game, when Marc only managed three points, the matches were reasonably close. He'd wondered if she was going easy on him.

They
'd talked, then, of simple things unconnected with the AoA or their mission, as if they were just two new friends sitting against the court wall getting to know each other. She told him what drew her to ESA. He shared the details of his life on Earth. Marc surprised himself with how easily he talked to her. Maybe it was the attention she'd shown him, or purely that she seemed to need the connection with a fellow agent.

Or heck, maybe he just liked her. There was something about her that made him more comfortable than he was around most women.
They talked for he didn't know how long and then walked, tired, back to his quarters.

It was then that they
'd said good night. In truth, he almost invited her in. Somewhat. On the racquetball court, watching her dash in front of him, muscles pushing hard beneath her workout gear, the thought crossed his mind often. But that was hardly appropriate, was it?

After all, h
e'd gotten no clear signals of anything physical from her. If he invited her to act on those feelings when she wasn't receptive. . . Well, it would put a kink in their working together, to say the least. He wasn't used to making such invitations anyway. It was more than likely that he would have just made a fool of himself.

And yet, l
ying there with the benefit of a full night's sleep to help his thinking, previously-missed signals began to show themselves. Were they really signals, or merely the product of her being from another culture? Or her relief at seeing another soul from the AoA? When they had said good night at his door, she had offered to wake him in the morning. There was a look in her eyes then. Maybe. Was there? She was rather tactile with him all night when they'd played and chatted. Not overwhelmingly so. But it could have been something.

Maybe.

Or maybe she was just that way with everyone. She didn't seem to be when she was with the others, though. The conclusion he'd drawn in those few moments in front of the door was uncertain enough to keep him from doing anything about it. Besides, he'd only just met the woman.

He lay there a while longer
while the issue chased itself through his brain, and then found himself doing some idle computer maintenance via his visor. Fifteen minutes later it became clear that he wasn't going to be falling back asleep in time for it to matter when the alarm went off. Marc tossed the sheets away, swung himself out of the bunk, and crossed the cramped room to the shower.

"I'm about to hack into an alien computer and I'm worrie
d about a woman," he muttered. "Stick to what you know, Marc."

Standard lunar water rationing made for a brief shower.
He was dried and stepping into his pants before he would have normally even turned off the water. The door signal chimed a second later. It was her.

"Just a sec," he called.
Modesty made him reach for his shirt before he stopped to think a moment. Answering the door topless wouldn't be completely unusual, would it?
Oh, what the hell.
He unlocked the door and opened it. In the fraction of a second it took to slide open, he realized that Marette might not be alone and felt very underdressed.

She was alone.

That previous bothersome thought lingered just long enough to make him hesitate. It was Marette who spoke first. "
Bonjour
. Up already, I see?"

"Good morning," he
said with a nod. "I woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep so. . ." He shrugged. He also realized that in his hesitation he'd completely missed noting her first reaction when she saw him topless. So much for his test.

"It would seem you did not need a wake-up after all."

"Still nice of you to check," he managed. "Come in." He turned from the door to get a shirt. She came in silently. The door closed behind her. "Any new developments?" He couldn't think of what else to say. Falling back on work seemed best. Work was good. Work was comfortable.

"Nothing new since last night, Mr. Triton.
To my knowledge."

He pulled the shirt over his head and turned back
toward her. "'Mr. Triton?'" He tried to mask his disappointment.

"After last night, I thought the less familiar was more appropriate."

"I had a good time last night."

"As did I."

Okay? "So. . ."

"So."

He shook his head. "Forget it." He moved back to grab his watch. When he turned to face her again, she was a step closer.

"You gave the impression of being eager to end it."

"I wasn't," he said, and managed to meet her gaze. "I wasn't sure how you— What you. . ."

Something flashed in her brown eyes that might have been amusement.
"Are all American men so thickheaded?"

"Ah, just
me, I think. I'm not really, uh. . ."

"Take off the visor, Marc," she told him.
He didn't say anything. He just did as she asked. She took the prosthetic from him and stepped softly into his space. "You have very nice eyes," she whispered. Her own gazed back at him, dark and deep.

"So do you."

"If I had told you such a thing last night, would you have been sure?" Her body was close. The heat of his shower still hovered above his skin. He could feel her brush against that aura. He let go of his thoughts and kissed her.

It was just a light touch
, just the barest whisper of his lips across hers. One brush, then another. His fingertips drifted over her hand, and she took his in a way that pulled the kiss deeper. He breathed her in. Their bodies melted together. Arms tightened. He could feel her heart pounding his.

Something was beeping.

Muffled between them, something was beeping. Marette broke away with what sounded like a curse and pulled a communicator from her belt. "This is Clarion."

He w
atched her as she talked. Her eyes avoided his until she signed off.

"
Je suis désolé,
I am needed," she apologized.

Marc watched her breathing slow.
"Problem?"

She shook her head.
"
Non
. But there are things that must be done before you and the others assemble." She kissed him again firmly and lingered just a moment. "This is why you must not hesitate," she told him before heading for the door. "Assemble with the others in Shuttle Bay Two at oh-eight hundred."

And with that, she was gone.
Marc sat down on the bunk, pulled out a laptop, and kicked himself.