Duty, however, was duty. He put Babbage’s jewelry in the recycler and opened the message. Cortázar was too close to the camera or else had chosen for reasons of his own to be slightly out of focus. His wide chin and thin, black hair should have been unremarkable. Sauveterre rubbed his hands like he was trying half-consciously to wash them.

“Captain Sauveterre,” the strange little man said. “I’m pleased to report that the sample arrived intact. Thank you very much for taking custody of it after its liberation. I am, however, distressed to hear that the fleet is running behind schedule.”

“It’s a few days over the course of months,” Sauveterre said to himself and the screen. “We’ll make it up.”

“I know you are aware that both supplies and time are in short supply until the artifact has been brought to heel. In order to help make up for this shortfall, the research group has put together some plans and specifications for some of the modifications the Barkeith will need in order to dock with the artifact. Several of them can be started by your engineering teams en route. And of course, if you have any questions, I am at your disposal. Cortázar out.”

The screen flipped to a series of technical drawings. There was more than enough about those to disturb him as well. They called all the alien technology by the name protomolecule, but of course, that far-traveled set of life-hijacking microparticles was only one object in a much grander toolbox. And if Cortázar had interpreted the top-clearance data from the MCRN probes correctly, what they had found would be much easier for humanity to tame and make use of.

Still, the changes Cortázar wanted for the Barkeith were unpleasantly organic. Less like they were fitting a new model of airlock on the ship, and more like they were carving it into some kind of colossal prosthesis.

It’s the beginning of something very new and very powerful, and if good people don’t step in to accept the power, bad ones will. It was what Admiral Duarte had told him the night he’d brought Sauveterre into the fold. It had been true then, and it was true now. He switched on the camera, adjusted his hair, and began recording.

“Message received. I will take the plans to my engineers at once. If they have any concerns, we will be in touch.” Short, to the point, minimalist without being rude. Efficient. He hoped it would come across as efficient. He rewatched it to be sure and considered rerecording it and changing concerns to questions, but decided he was overanalyzing it. As he sent it off, his system chimed.

“Captain, we have clearance from Medina.”

“Do we now, Mister Kogoma? Kind of them. What was the resolution of their tracking number situation?”

“The freighter is moving in to dock with the station, sir.”