Star Wars_ The Black Fleet Crisis 03_ Tyrant's Test - Michael P. Kube-McDowell [111]
“Who contracted for this expedition?”
Eckels considered refusing to answer. There were nondisclosure clauses in the standard Institute contracts that offered not only a suitable pretext, but also a reasonable defense of his actions after the fact. But being difficult would not help move the conversation forward to what the visitors really wanted—though Eckels was already sure in his own mind what that was. He had had but one thought since the ship had arrived, only one explanation for this coincidence—this confrontation.
“Harkin Dyson, a private collector,” said Eckels. “But come, you know all that already. Tell me, what did Dyson do? I should not have trusted him. Men with that much wealth do what they want and let the law try to catch up. Please tell me he didn’t try selling the remains piecemeal.”
Pakkpekatt did not seem interested in Eckels’s confessions. “Was this contract the only basis for your interest in Maltha Obex?”
“No,” said Eckels. The alien’s unblinking gaze was becoming an annoyance. “We lost some people here, folks who were working another contract. But I would guess you know all about that, too. The rumor going around the Institute was that it was an NRI job.”
“Dr. Eckels, I have not asked of you that you tell me only things I did not know already,” said Pakkpekatt, somehow managing to loom even closer. “Have you encountered any other vessels since your arrival here?”
“Just the other NRI ship—”
The holo display suddenly dissolved in a burst of snowy static. “What happened?”
“I broke the link,” said Manazar. “Doctor, this Pakkpekatt—I just identified his species. He’s a Hortek.”
“And?”
“They’re supposed to be telepathic. That’s why he demanded the holo link. He’s probably already found out everything he wanted from you.”
“Well, I am not telepathic, and I have not found out everything I want,” Eckels said frostily. “Restore the link.”
“There you are, Doctor,” said Pakkpekatt a moment later. “Your reply was garbled by the equipment malfunction.”
Eckels nodded. “It was no malfunction, Colonel—just a bit of clumsiness.”
Pakkpekatt fanned his fingers and gestured dismissively. “You were speaking of an NRI ship.”
“When we reached Maltha Obex, there was a military vessel here. I presumed it was NRI, though nothing was ever said openly,” Eckels said. “It was the ship that brought our late colleagues here. The pilot guided us to their bodies before he left. That was an unexpected courtesy, to have him wait—I do give you credit for that.”
“It was no courtesy, Doctor,” said Pakkpekatt. “Just a bit of bureaucratic paralysis.”
“I see.” Eckels sat forward in the booth. “It was impatience that killed Stopa and Krenn, Colonel—their own, and that of whoever dangled a bonus worth twice their annual research budget in front of them. It’s curious that what was so urgent suddenly became unnecessary. Or did it? I was willing to accept Dyson at face value, as another of the artifact hunters who hover around the Institute. But your arrival here is one coincidence too many. Dyson is one of you, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know who he is, Doctor,” said Pakkpekatt. “A meddler who’s succeeded in manipulating both of us, it seems.”
Eckels was taken aback by the unexpected answer, but quickly recovered his momentum. “What is your business here? And what’s this about our vessel being at risk? Did you mean that as a warning or a threat, Colonel?”
“A warning,” said Pakkpekatt. “A ship may be coming here—a ship that has already destroyed or crippled at least five warships from four different navies. Our business here is to intercept it. Your vessel will be at grave risk if you remain here. I suggest you wrap up your work and move on.”
“That’s not possible, Colonel,” said Eckels. “We’re scheduled for another thirteen days here, and we need every minute of every hour.”
“It may be possible for you to return at another time,” said Pakkpekatt. “But Maltha Obex is not a safe place