Creideiki thought that debatable. Galactics didn't often think like the Earthborn, and wouldn't conduct a search in the same way. Witness how long the fleet had lain undiscovered. Still, Metz was probably right in the long run.
"In that case, Doctor, why don't we simply broadcast the location to the Library? It'll be public knowledge, and no longer our affair. Surely this important discovery should be investigated by a licensed team from the Institutesss?" Creideiki was sarcastic, but he realized, as Metz smiled patronizingly, that the human took him seriously.
"You are being naive, Captain. The fanatics overhead care little about loose Galactic codes when they believe the millennium is at hand! If everyone knows where the derelict fleet is, the battleground will simply move out there! Those ancient ships will be destroyed in a crossfire, no matter how powerful that weird protective field that surrounds them. And the Galactics will still strive to capture us, in case we lied!"
They had arrived at the bridge lock. Creideiki paused there. "So it would be better if only one of the contesting groups got the data, and proceeded to investigate the fleet alone?"
"Yes! After all, what is that bunch of floating hulks to us? Just a dangerous place where we lost a scoutboat and a dozen fine crewfen. We're not ancestor-worshipers like those ET fanatics fighting over us, and we don't give a damn except intellectually whether the derelict fleet is a remnant from the days of Progenitors, or even the returning Progenitors themselves! It sure isn't worth dying over. If we've learned one thing in the last two hundred years, it's that a little clan of newcomers like us Earthfolk has got to duck out of the way when big boys like the Soro and Gubru get something up their snoots!"
Dr. Metz's silvery hair waved as he bobbed his head for emphasis. A fizzing halo of effervescence collected amongst the strands.
Creideiki didn't want to go back to respecting Ignacio Metz, but when the man became passionate enough to drop his stuffy facade, he became almost likable.
Unfortunately, Metz was fundamentally wrong.
Creideiki's harness clock chimed. Creideiki realized with a start how late it had become.
"You make an interesting argument, Doctor Metz. I don't have time to go into it any further, right now. But nothing will be decided until a full staff review by the ship's council. Does that sound fair?"
"Yes, I think so, although…"
"And, speaking of the battle over Kithrup, I must go now and see what Takkata-Jim has to say." He hadn't intended to spend so much time with Metz. He did not plan to miss his long-delayed exercise period.
Metz seemed unwilling to let go. "Ah. Your mention of Takkata-Jim reminds me of something else I wanted to bring up, Captain. I'm concerned about feelings of social isolation expressed by some of the crewfen who happen to come from various experimental sub-breeds. They complain of ostracism, and seem to be under discipline a disproportionate amount of the time."
"You're referring to some of the Stenos, I assume."
Metz looked uncomfortable. "A colloquial term that seems to have caught on, although all neo-fen are taxonomically Tursiops amicus…"
"I have my jaws on the situation, Dr. Metz," Creideiki no longer cared if he interrupted the mel. "Subtle group dynamics are involved, and I am applying what I believe are effective techniques to maintain crew solidarity."
Only about a dozen of the Stenos showed disaffection. Creideiki suspected an infection of stress atavism, a decay of sapiency under fear and pressure. The supposed expert, Dr. Metz, seemed to think the majority of Streaker's crew was practicing racial discrimination.
"Are you implying that Takkata-Jim is also having problems?" Creideiki asked.
"Certainly not! He's a most impressive officer. Mention of his name reminded me because…" Metz paused.
Because he's a Stenos, Creideiki finished for him silently. Shall I tell Metz that I'm considering moving Hikahi into the vice-captaincy? For all of Takkata-Jim's skill, his moody isolation is becoming a drag on crew morale. I cannot have that in my pod-second.
Creideiki sorely missed Lieutenant Yachapa-Jean, who had died back at the Shallow Cluster.
"Dr. Metz, since you bring up the subject, I have noticed discrepancies between the pre-launch psycho-biological profiles of certain members of the crew and their subsequent performance, even before we discovered the derelict fleet. I'm not a cetapsychologist, per se, but in certain cases I am convinced that the fen did not belong on this ship in the first place. Have you a comment?"
Metz's face was blank. "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about, Captain."
Creideiki's harness whirred as one arm snaked out to scratch an itch above his right eye. "I have little to go on, but soon I think I'll want to invoke command privilege and look over your notes. Strictly informally, of course. Please prepare them for…"
A chime interrupted Creideiki. It came from the comm link on his harness. "Yess, speak!" he commanded. He listened for a few moments to a buzzing voice on his neural tap.
"Hold everything," he replied. "I'll be right up. Creideiki out."
He focused a burst of sonar at the sensitive plate by the door lock. The hatch hummed open.
"That was the bridge," he told Metz. "A scout has returned with a report from Tsh't and Thomas Orley. I'm needed, but we will discuss these matters again, sssoon, Doctor."
With two powerful fluke strokes Creideiki was through the lock doors and on his way to the bridge.
Ignacio Metz watched the captain go.
Creideiki suspects, he thought. He suspects my special studies. I'll have to do something. But what?
These conditions of siege-pressure were providing fantastic data, especially on the dolphins Metz had inveigled into Streaker's complement. But now things were starting to come apart. Some of his subjects were showing stress symptoms he had never expected.
Now, in addition to worry about ET fanatics, he had to handle Creideiki's suspicions. It wouldn't be easy to put him off track. Metz appreciated genius when he saw it, especially in an uplifted dolphin.
If only he were one of mine, he thought of Creideiki. If only I could take credit for that one.
23 ::: Gillian
The ships lay in space like serried rows of scattered beads, dimly reflecting the faint glow of the Milky Way. The nearest stars were the dim reddish oldsters of a small globular cluster, patient and barren remnants from the first epoch of star formation — devoid of planets or metals.
Gillian contemplated the photograph, one of six that Streaker had innocently transmitted home from what had seemed an obscure and uninteresting gravitational tide pool, far off the beaten path.
An eerie, silent armada, unresponsive to their every query; the Earthlings hadn't known what to make of it. The fleet of ghost ships had no place in the ordered structure of the Five Galaxies.
How long had they gone unnoticed?
Gillian put the holo aside and picked up another. It showed a close-up of one of the giant derelict ships. Huge as a moon, pitted and ancient, it shimmered inside a faint lambence — a preservative field of unguessable properties. The aura had defied analysis. They could only tell that it was an intense probability field of unusual nature.
In attempting to dock with one ghost ship, at the outer reaches of the field, the crew of Streaker's gig somehow touched off a chain reaction. Brilliant lightning flashed between the ancient behemoth and the little scoutboat. Lieutenant Yachapa-Jean had reported that all the dolphins were experiencing intense visions and hallucinations. She tried to disengage, but in her disorientation she set off her stasis screens inside the strange field. The resultant explosion tore apart both the tiny Earthship and the giant derelict.