by C. Gockel
At Sixty’s name, Alaric’s expression hardened. His gaze shifted to a point on the far wall. Volka saw his memory of Sixty as Alaric had seen him when he’d been in freefall, body pierced by his own ship. Sixty’s expression had been hard and cold, and she felt Alaric’s certainty that Sixty had come to kill him.
Her nostrils flared. That was ridiculous. Sixty would never hurt anyone. He had gone out to help James save Alaric. Alaric was delusional … no, irrational, and she immediately knew why. She could feel it.
“Don’t be jealous,” Volka all but snarled.
He looked at Volka sharply. “I never demanded that of you.”
The reply was so fast, so cutting, and so honest Volka felt unbalanced. She was the telepathic one. She was the one who was supposed to have the upper hand.
They regarded each other a moment.
He didn’t want her to be angry, she could feel that and see it when he tried to smile—even though it came out more of a grimace. “I understand,” he said, “it is very Galactican to be friends after …”
After a love affair. Volka knew the words he couldn’t say and felt the way his stomach turned to lead at the word “friends.”
Neither of them had the upper hand, really. They both hated this. Volka smiled tentatively, trying to hold out an olive branch. “Galacticans have a lot of silly ideas.”
He returned the tentative smile. They understood each other. She felt the connection between them more strongly.
Ducking again, she changed the subject. “Your gift—has werfle hair on it—I’m sorry.”
Beside Alaric, Carl snorted and rolled onto his back to punctuate that comment.
She pulled a tablet from the bag and handed it to Alaric. “It’s for reading. You can download just about any book onto it. I can’t stay, I have …” She had to go find Reich’s ship. He’d never approve. He’d think it was too dangerous for her. “… an appointment. I thought you might be bored.”
She felt his spirits sink, though all he said was, “Thank you.”
She lifted a hand. “You turn it on by—”
He slid his finger across the front, and the screen came to life. “I know how to use them. Thank you. It’s a good gift.”
Of course he did. He had been in the Republic before.
“Oh … well …” she stammered. Bending down, she pulled out a small, dark glass sphere about the size of her palm and handed it to him.
“A Galactic hologlobe?” He blinked. “This I don’t know how to work.”
Finally, he was the unbalanced one. “Like this.” Volka leaned over him and could feel his longing. She didn’t feel the same way, and yet she wished she could have gotten him some of his preferred shaving cream. He smelled like Galactican soap and antiseptics, not himself.
“Globe, turn on,” she commanded, and then pulled back fast. “You just talk to it to control it.”
Light danced inside the device.
Volka’s nose wrinkled. “I mostly find holo media to be … vapid. But they love holos here, and news sometimes winds up on personal holos first.”
Curiosity rolled off Alaric. She had been temporarily forgotten, and it was a relief. “Globe, show me the most recent updates on System 5,” he commanded.
A man appeared in the globe. He had strange ridges in his nose and on his forehead. His attire was casual. “Hey Bixatics! This is Bix here with theeeee latest on what is happening in System 5. I’ve just heard from a friend there on orbital 11 that ten Kestrels and twenty Falconets —those are Fleet warships for your infoooo—passed by them headed toward S5O4. That will put them at Time Gate 5 in less than a day.” He grinned at the camera. “They must have had one of those top-secret Fleet gates we hear about.”
Volka saw small narrow ships in her—no Alaric’s—mind’s eye, and then his mind was moving too fast. “This is a publicly accessible holo?” His words were cool, clipped, and yet there was an urgent calculus behind them.
“Yes,” Volka replied. “The time stamp is only a minute ago. His ‘friend’ must have a Q-comm if we’re getting it this quick. Q-comms are rare, but not that rare.”
“Luddeccean ships have them,” he said.
Of course. They would have to.
“There are probably several aboard Gate 5,” Volka supplied. “The Gate’s own, but wealthy civilians have them too, and of course AI.” Like Sixty.
The hologlobe slipped through Alaric’s fingers.
Startled by how completely blank his mind had gone, Volka murmured, “Whoops,” and caught the globe before it fell to the floor.
Alaric struggled to get up, and then hissed as pain lanced through his midsection. Volka felt a shadow of it ripple through her, but there was something worse than pain on Alaric’s mind.
Alaric growled at Carl. “Carl, wake up! Wake up!”
“What’s wrong?” Volka asked, confused.
Carl’s necklace crackled, and he stretched, but did not open his eyes. “It better be important.”
Face distorted by pain, Alaric turned to Volka and grabbed her arm. “The Infected aboard the gate. They may see this holo. They’ll know that they won’t be able to hold the gate.” She saw numbers and warships in his eyes, but still didn’t understand.
“That’s good …” Volka’s ears curled, and her heart beat fast. “Isn’t it?”
“I’m contacting Butterball now!” Carl declared.
“Volka,” Alaric whispered, his eerie blue eyes searching hers. The connection between them burned bright, but his mind was moving too fast to follow. “How does the Dark respond when it is cornered?”
Volka remembered the piles of frozen bodies at Reich’s research station. “Without mercy.”
And Sixty was trapped aboard the gate with it.
5
Blood in the Water
Galactic Republic Time Gate 5
6T9 talked to dumb maintenance machines all the time. In over 100 years, he’d never tried to be one.
Experiencing the world as WaterWERK16, he knew why. He’d taken over the “mind” of WaterWERK, a plumbing ‘bot. He was plugged so deep into WaterWERK’s “consciousness” he was no longer aware of his own body. In WaterWERK, 6T9 had vision in 360 degrees. He could swim, float, and fly. But as he zipped through a large, man-sized pipe—alternately rising above the water and submerging himself, there was no joy in any of these abilities. Even pterys took joy in flight, otters delighted in slipping from land to stream, and deer leapt seemingly just in happiness.
Even before 6T9 had his Q-comm, he’d been able to appreciate the sensation of an ice cube on his skin—it was not harmful, and its chill was an indication of his human partner’s desire for play.
Was the ability to feel joy really the marker of higher consciousness? Had he been more than a dumb ‘bot before his Q-comm? Eliza had thought so.
That thought would have made him want to pat his side to feel the reassuring weight of her ashes if he was in his real body. Here it was an abstraction. Even thinking of Volka on Time Gate 1 with Captain Darmadi was an abstraction. Static did not rush through him. He had no desire to punch a wall. That was, he supposed, a feature of his current state … but the cold part of his mind that could do abstract calculus also thought it might be a bug. ColdSWEEPER, a security ‘bot designed for the surface of icy worlds, had experienced a mental breakdown when its operators had died. That mental breakdown had led to denial. That denial had allowed it to find survivors—it would not have gone on a seemingly hopeless search if it had been able to comprehend the situation.
He wanted to think about that more, but WaterWERK16 passed over a shadow in the water. The shadow did not trouble WaterWERK, but it made 6T9’s Q-comm spark, and that spark carried across the ether from 6T9’s body to the little machine.
The pipe WaterWERK was traversing was the freshwater supply that fed the quarantined section … or had, until Gate 5 shut it off. The water was seventy centis deep and clear. The shadow was the length, though not the shape, of a man.
Analyzing the shape and the light source, 6T9’s vastly superior processing power identified it as two humans wearing masks beneath the water.
If 6T9 had been in his own body, circuits would have fired within him, but WaterWERK was not programmed to feel satisfaction in finding human divers. Connecting to Luddeccean radio frequencies, 6T9 spoke with WaterWERK’s gratingly mechanical voice, “Fireteam 4, I have a target.”
“On our way!” a gruff Luddeccean Guardsman replied.
Time Gate 5 piped in, “Estimated time of their arrival, three minutes and fifty-two seconds.”
The shadow moved toward the sluice gate that led to the quarantine zone. Opening the sluice gate might lead to the contamination of the water supply. He had to hold them off until help came.
WaterWERK was programmed not to harm humans. 6T9 no longer had that restriction. He turned on WaterWERK’s welding arm, and his Q-comm hummed. A touch of the hot appendage would be extremely painful—but not cause any lasting damage.
6T9 let WaterWERK pass over the shadow of the divers, as though he had not understood what they were. Behind him, the shadow advanced toward the sluice gate. 6T9 lifted, wheeled around, and accelerated toward them at WaterWERK’s maximum velocity, dropping as he did. Gravity added its force to his charge. The welding arm wasn’t hot enough, but it struck one of the divers with the force of a punch. The arm was a lot thinner than a fist, and the force was more concentrated. For an instant, the welding arm was lodged in the diver’s shoulder. 6T9 pulled back, and crimson bloomed in the shallow water.
In water, the wound wouldn’t scab. The diver could die. WaterWERK’s circuits could not dim at this prospect.
The second diver reared up, yanked up his friend, leaned him against the sloping wall of the tunnel, and then he turned to confront WaterWERK. 6T9 couldn’t analyze the diver’s expression—his underwater breathing mask completely covered his face. The man advanced on WaterWERK, an arm outstretched. WaterWERK was too close to gain enough velocity to deliver another punch, but its welding arm was finally hot. 6T9 swirled the ‘bot in the air and touched the arm to the human’s shoulder. A muffled scream came from beneath his mask.
“What ... the … fuck is wrong with it?” gasped the man leaning against the wall.
Snarling, his friend ripped his mask from his face and whipped the mask at the welding arm. WaterWERK spun helplessly. The man would reach the sluice gate—
“Halt!” a Luddeccean Guardsman’s voice echoed through the tunnel. “Hands above your heads! We’ve got stunners.”
A stun in the thigh-deep water would kill by drowning. Halting, the diver eased his hands over his head.
“Turn around!” the Guardsman ordered.
Swearing, the diver turned and snarled, “Your religion is supposed to teach you compassion! Without fresh water, the people on the other side of that sluice gate will die!”
One of the Luddecceans advanced, pistol raised. “There is enough water for them to survive for days.”
“Our … sister … other side,” murmured the diver leaning against the wall.
WaterWERK’s 360 degree vision included the ability to see at 1000 frames per second—useful when calculating the volume of water lost in leaks. With WaterWERK’s vision, 6T9 saw all the Ludduccean Guardsmen’s pistols sag minutely. He also saw the diver shift toward them in that moment of weakness or empathy. But the Luddecceans recovered, and the diver froze.
“Pat him down,” the Guardsman said, and one Guardsman sloshed through the water toward the diver. “Get the other one,” the Guardsman said to his remaining companions, and they ran to the injured man.
Struggling against the man patting him down, the uninjured diver shouted, “What are you doing with him?”
“He needs to get to a doctor, and so do you,” the lead Guardsman snapped.
The diver sagged as the Luddecceans hauled away his injured brother. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed—a Guardsman stunner prodding his kidneys.
“Thank you,” one of the Guardsmen said to WaterWERK.
WaterWERK experienced no spark of fulfillment.
The Luddeccean frowned.
That observation traveled through the ether to 6T9’s real body. His real body responded before his Q-comm had a chance to analyze the situation. Bobbing in the air, in WaterWERK’s grating voice, 6T9 responded, “Thank you for your assistance.”
Features softening, the man nodded, turned, and followed the other Guardsmen through the tunnel. The quarantine was safe, and the galaxy and Volka were safer than they would be if it had been breached. In WaterWERK’s body, 6T9 hovered in the air, blood swirled in the water below, and 6T9 felt … nothing. Which was, he supposed, something in its own right. Boredom? A relief?
But Gate 5 called to him, “There is a situation at the barricade,” and he had no time to contemplate it further.
6T9 came back into his body. Static rippled through him—an emotional hangover he hadn’t been allowed to experience as WaterWERK?
“… it’s my home …” The male voice was familiar and 6T9 remembered he’d left WaterWERK to deal with a “situation.” He blinked. He was standing with his back to the quarantine airlock doors, behind a barricade of powered-down security ‘bots. Damaged by the mob, the two-meter-tall, vaguely cone-shaped ‘bots couldn’t fire stunners anymore, but they could get in the way of hurled objects.
“I want to help.” The familiar voice came from just beyond the barricade. It was the voice of Michael, a protestor he and Volka had saved in New Grande—the main city of the planet below. 6T9 had thrown him under a picnic table. Sundancer had swooped in, scooped up the picnic table, Volka, Carl, 6T9, Michael, and other civilians injured in the protest, and then spirited them off to safety. What was Michael doing here—and how did he think he could help?
Striding around the security ‘bot barricade, for 2.5 seconds 6T9 thought either his eidetic memory or hearing had failed him. The man talking to Grayson had military regulation hair and a more powerful physique than Michael the protester.
The man who sounded like Michael continued, “I’m on leave. I’m fresh out of Fleet training. I’m inexperienced, but it’s my home down there. I want to help.”
“Do you have any Military ID?” Lieutenant Grayson responded.
6T9 scanned the Michael look-alike’s profile.
Tapping his port, the maybe-Michael said, “It’s ether.”
6T9’s Q-comm sparked, analysis finished. It was … “Michael!”
Michael turned to 6T9. He cocked his head. “Is that you …? The 6T9 unit? From the riot?”
“6T9 Unit?” Brow furrowing comically, Grayson reached up as though he were going to scratch his head but hit his helmet instead.
6T9 overrode his preprogrammed urge to sigh. The number sixty-nine had the same sexual connotations on Luddeccea as it did in the Republic. Volka had known what it meant. 6T9’s Q-comm sparked and his vision went white. Volka knew … which meant she must have experienced it, and if she had, it would have been with Darmadi who was currently alone with her on Time Gate 1. Darmadi was doubtlessly flat on his back in a hospital bed, but the sixty-nine position could be gentle, ideal even in that sort of scenario. Static flared along 6T9’s spine.
“Errr … is your eyeball … sparking, 6T9?” Michael asked.
“His name is Android General 1?” Lieutenant Grayson said, turning the statement into a question.
Their words—and the spark in his left eye—snapped 6T9 back into the present. Closing the offending eye and wiping it with a gloved hand, 6T9 muttered, “I had a system upgrade. I’m Android General 1 now.” He’d actually stolen the login name of a pirate, used it to take over a pirate ship, and the event had become so famous in the ‘bot world, the name had stuck to him. That pirate had become infected by the Dark—was probably on the other side of the quarantine door, in fact—and now the Dark itself was angry about the appropriation of the name. His jaw tightened as he remembered the Dark’s personal threat to destroy him.
“Oh,” Michael replied.
“Errr …” said Grayson.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, but then Grayson shook himself and said, “General, I cannot confirm if this man is in Fleet.”
6T9 reached into the ether. “Time Gate 5?”
“Lieutenant Michael Snow is a member of the Galactic Republic Fleet Marines. I have his records and all records of local military personnel in this system.” At the Gate’s reply, names scrolled in front of 6T9’s eyes. Some were aboard the gate.
“Michael … Lieutenant Snow is in Fleet,” 6T9 said to Grayson. His Q-comm sparked. He pinged Michael over the ether while downloading data on Fleet personnel on the gate from Five. “Michael, I’m sending you data on all Fleet personnel aboard. I want you to contact them and see if they would be willing to volunteer. I’ll speak to the police chief here about finding positions for you.”
Michael nodded. “Yes, sir.” He adopted a parade rest, and his eyes went blank as he accessed the ether.
6T9’s Q-comm hummed. Situation handled. He prepared to take over the consciousness of another machine—and was interrupted.
“Android General 1,” Time Gate 5 said over the ether. “You still need to handle the situation.”
Clang-clang.
The sound came from the other side of the quarantine.
6T9’s hair started to rise.
Michael’s body jerked, and he snapped out of his ether trance. “What was that?”
A small cleaning ‘bot spoke with Time Gate 5’s voice. “The Infected are trying to break down the airlock door again. Using battering rams of hover gear shafts. Nothing to be concerned about.” Beeping, the ‘bot whirled off after a piece of trash.
Michael and Grayson turned to 6T9, eyes wide—a mirror reflection of 6T9’s own wide-eyed shock. Clearing his throat, 6T9 squared his shoulders and played general. “If Gate 5 says there is nothing to be concerned about, there is no need to worry.”
Clang!
“Who’s worried?” Michael murmured under his breath.
