Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [9]
“Talk about your godlike beings,” Womack breathed.
“He’s no god,” said the chief engineer, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. “He’s just like you and me.”
The security chief chuckled bitterly. “Except he can steer the ship just by thinking about it.”
McMillan shot him a dirty look. “Imagine if it was you who had been altered. Would you want to be caged up like an animal? Especially when you hadn’t done anything wrong?”
“This isn’t about justice,” Pelletier maintained. “It’s not about right and wrong. It’s about survival.”
“And what’s the point of surviving,” McMillan asked him, “if we’re to throw right and wrong away in the process?”
“Hundreds of years ago,” said Hollandsworth, “people in Salem accused their neighbors of being monsters and murdered them, because they feared what they didn’t understand.” He looked around the room. “Is that what we’re doing? Lashing out at our neighbor out of ignorance? And if I do that, who’s the real monster here—him or me?”
“We’re not lashing out at Agnarsson,” Pelletier argued doggedly. “We’re just talking about restraining him.”
“For now,” McMillan told him. “But what happens if your restraints don’t work? Once you’ve taken that first step, it’s a lot easier to take the next one, and the one after that.”
“As someone once said,” Hollandsworth added, “we’ve established the principle…now we’re just haggling over the price.”
Pelletier didn’t answer them. Instead, he turned to Tarasco, his eyes as hard as stone. “What are you going to do, sir?”
The captain frowned as he thought about it. Coming into this meeting, his inclination had been in line with his security chief’s—he had considered the idea of having Agnarsson watched closely and, if necessary, confined to his quarters. However, McMillan and Hollandsworth had made some good points in the man’s behalf.
Agnarsson had been one of them, right from the get-go. He had risked as much as anyone to carry out the Valiant’s mission to the stars. And even if he hadn’t, he was a human being. As McMillan had stated so eloquently, the man had rights.
“For the time being,” Tarasco decided, “I’m just going to talk to Agnarsson—let him know he’s treading on thin ice.”
Pelletier didn’t look happy. “And if he starts throwing people around instead of blankets?”
The captain looked him in the eye. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Three
Captain’s log, supplemental. I have had another conversation with Geirrod Agnarsson. This time, I made it clear to him that I wouldn’t tolerate his tampering with any of my ship’s systems, or for that matter, frightening any of my crew. I also told him that he was to cooperate fully with Dr. Gorvoy in his efforts to explore Agnarsson’s condition. Agnarsson seemed to understand the consequences of diverging from my orders and promised to follow them. For the time being, I’m willing to believe him.
Chantal Coquillette had heard the stories about Agnarsson’s manipulation of the helm controls.
But when she entered the intensive care unit, he didn’t look like a superman. He just looked like a normal human being, engrossed in one of Dr. Gorvoy’s beloved mystery novels.
“How are you doing today?” the medic asked, her voice echoing from bulkhead to bulkhead, emphasizing the loneliness of the place.
Agnarsson looked up from his book. “Just fine.”
The eyes, thought Coquillette. She had forgotten about his weird, silver eyes. But truthfully, even those weren’t enough to make him seem like some alien entity, ready to tear the ship apart on a whim.
He still looked human. He still looked like the man who had helped bring their engines back when they were stranded.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked.
Agnarsson appeared to think about it for a moment. “I don’t think so,” he decided. “But thanks for asking.”
The medic shrugged. “Don’t mention it.”
“I guess you’re here for another scan,” said the engineer, still intent on his mystery novel.
“You don’t sound happy,” Coquillette replied, removing