by C. Gockel
He’d been plugged in for a little over ten minutes. He was still not fully charged.
He turned up his auditory receivers, trying to discern what had summoned him back. From the cabin came Herbie Hancock’s “The Maze,” not quite drowned out by heavy footsteps, and the clatter of weapons. He heard Lang griping to Falade, “Sergeant Davies has had a death wish since his wife died. Why did you have to drag us into it?”
Falade replied, “We’re not going to die. We’re going to be heroes and save the Republic! And you didn’t have to come, anyway.”
“Give me those so I can charge them,” Michael said. There were clicks and revving noises as a weapon was plugged in. Nothing seemed amiss. Why had he been brought out of the mindscape?
Lang said, “This box’s got rations. Guess it won’t do us any good if we can’t lift our masks, though.”
“Can the robot—the general, I mean—eat?” Falade whispered.
“Maybe,” Michael said. “I think I remember a holo mentioning that he does.” 6T9 had been in several erotic holos but he hadn’t eaten in one. Had Michael seen one of those? 6T9’s role in that had been quite commanding. His circuits sparked, and he remembered his interview with the reporter that had forced the Republic to straighten out Volka’s immigration papers. He had mentioned his ability to eat in that holo.
“A holo is like a movie?” Falade asked.
“Yeah … I guess so?” Michael responded.
“Wow! He’s a really famous general,” Falade said.
6T9’s circuits sparked in amusement, but also confusion. He’d been drawn away from Volka for this?
Davies’s voice echoed from the berth into the ship. “We don’t need 100 kilos of cat food!”
6T9 blinked. Cat food?
“Hasn’t he come? He was supposed to explain,” replied another, fainter male voice. “Please let me load these up. You will need them. He assured me.”
Davies grumbled, “Mister, I don’t know who you are—”
“Kim, the name is Kim, and I’m trying to help. If you’d just let me—”
Davies’s voice was low and threatening. “Take another step, and I’ll stun you.”
Ah, that was what he’d been summoned for. Ripping the charger out of the socket, 6T9 ran from the cabin, doing his best to smooth his skin over his face. Passing Michael—now half-clad in an envirosuit that must have arrived while he’d been charging—Falade, and Lang, he pounded down the gangway. He found Davies staring down his stunner at a man who looked distinctly unthreatening. The tins of Happy Whiskers cat food he was pushing in a flimsy, two-wheeled grocery cart might have had something to do with that impression. 6T9’s Q-comm fired, analyzing the situation. Focusing on the strange man, 6T9 drew from databases of human male bodies and faces from across the Galactic Republic. He came to a stunning conclusion. “You are remarkable.”
The man—Kim—shifted and touched his chest. “I’m certain I’m not.”
“You are perfectly average,” 6T9 declared. “You are of precisely average height and weight. Your nose, mouth, and ears are almost the perfect amalgamation of millions of features. Your hair color and eyes are the same.” He blinked. “You augmented yourself to be normal.” It was the only explanation.
The man drew himself up to his perfectly average height and squared his shoulders to their completely unremarkable width. “I have never augmented my appearance.” There was something cool and not at all average in his tone.
Tilting his head, 6T9 zoomed in on the man’s neural port. It was the only thing about the man that wasn’t average. It was plain, ordinary, very simple—and exactly like Noa’s port. She’d gotten hers on Luddeccea before it had split from the Republic. Even before the split, Luddeccea had been lukewarm towards tech and so neural ports implanted there tended to be inconspicuous. And that was conspicuous in a way. He narrowed one eye. A muffled “wuff-wuff” from the entrance to the ship’s berth drew his attention.
Kurz, the robotic German Shorthair Pointer, came trotting into the berth, tail wagging, head high, and a tiny orange kitten dangling from his jaws.
“Butterball!” exclaimed Kim.
Dropping the kitten at 6T9’s feet, Kurz declared, “I found a Kätzchen, General, and I brought him to you! I am zuch a very good boy.” His tail wagged in double time.
A gem dangling from the kitten’s neck erupted in static. “Found? I asked you for a ride to Android General 1, and you picked me up in your mouth.”
“Zuch a good boy,” Kurz repeated, sitting down and raising his nose.
“Butterball, we’ve discussed this,” Kim said. “Dogs are not steeds. Their musculature isn’t designed for weight on their shoulders.”
Butterball sniffed and licked his shoulder.
The Dark fleeing Time Gate 5 was nearing the atmosphere. They needed to leave. 6T9 needed to resolve this kerfuffle now. 6T9 gave a half bow to the kitten. “Butterball, Carl mentioned a member of his kind was aboard. I take it this cat food is a gift from you.” He blinked. “Are you coming with us?”
Butterball sat and wrapped his tail around his front paws. “No, I cannot. The Dark is still here. It is vital to The One and the Republic that I monitor it. However, there are several feral cat colonies in the manufacturing district. My species is moving into their bodies. They will be your scouts and will alert you to the presence of the Dark.” He flicked his ears. “However, their bodies are hungry.”
“Their bodies will become infected,” 6T9 said.
Gazing up at him with unblinking golden eyes, Butterball said, “Yes, but mother cats will fight to the death for their kittens. We won’t be taking anything they wouldn’t give willingly.”
6T9 didn’t have the ability to verify that claim. Many species would die for their young, but whether they did so knowing they were risking their lives wasn’t something that could be known by watching their behavior. Butterball might be lying or telling the truth. He had no idea. But he did know that humans and cats would soon be facing the Infected on the ground in New Grande. A few dozen cats, controlled by The One, could save millions of both species.
To Davies, 6T9 said, “Load up the cat food.”
Davies looked askance at Butterball. “We are going to be working with demons … lots of ‘em?”
6T9’s mind briefly went blank. They were about to face off against the Infected, and the man was worried about telepathic cats?
“Oh, come on,” 6T9 said, slipping from character. “A tiny little kitty can’t be more terrifying than me.” 6T9 could rip the man’s arm out of his socket if he was so inspired.
Davies scowled, straightened, and replied, “Sir! I have no neural network. You cannot read or control my mind, sir!”
6T9’s circuits stopped firing for an instant and then fired brightly. Volka could read and control people’s minds … if she was upset. That was more frightening than dismemberment?
Kim cleared his throat, and 6T9’s attention snapped back to the remarkably unremarkable man. “Shipman,” Kim said to Davies, “Archbishop Sato has explained how cats and werfles want to regain their place in heaven. By helping them find their souls, you help your own.” He shuffled his feet. “Or so I’ve been told by Butterball.”
Davies swallowed. “Aye, that’s true.”
6T9 added reason to the appeal to emotion. “We’ll need help detecting the Dark.”
Davies shuddered, but said, “All right,” and then started to haul the cat food out of the cart.
“You can keep the cart,” Kim said. “It might be useful.”
Davies didn’t hesitate to accept. He wheeled the cart up the ramp. 6T9 noted idly that Eliza had once had a cart very similar to it. He supposed things that were truly functional never went out of style.
Kim bent down and scooped up Butterball, placing the kitten around his neck. Butterball’s yellow eyes stayed fixed on 6T9, and his collar crackled. “The cats will come to you.”
Kurz, sitting quietly until that moment, stood up and poi
nted his nose up the ship’s ramp. “More Katzen?” Before 6T9 could answer, the dog had dashed up the ramp and into the ship. 6T9 could send it back—but the Infected already had a lead in their race to the planet.
“Thank you,” he said to Mr. Kim and Butterball.
Human and kitten inclined their heads to exactly the same degree. 6T9 suspected there was more to them than met the eye, but it was time for his team to leave.
Heading up the ramp, he paused and looked over his shoulder in the direction of Time Gate 1, as though he might hear Volka as she’d heard Alaric across the light-years. The only sound he heard was the ship’s engines.
12
By the River Styx
Galactic Republic: Time Gate 1
Alaric held the hologlobe before him. In its light was an old man wearing a suit that was as dark as the night sky punctuated here and there by glinting white, like stars. The old man was smiling cheerfully at the camera. A woman of astonishing beauty in a crimson dress stood beside him, face impassive. The old man was saying how honored he was to be chosen for this historic opportunity. Alaric only half heard the man’s words; his eyes were riveted to Volka, standing behind him in a line of Galactic Marines in their formal Dress Grays. Volka wore a simple white dress and was dwarfed by everyone around her. Her eyes were downcast.
He wanted to smack the smiling old man for hurting her.
The voice of a familiar android came from the door. “They’ll change into envirosuits immediately after the holo-op.”
Determined not to show he’d been surprised, Alaric scowled more intensely at the holo. Now it was showing a woman “augmented” to look like a Stone Age statue. A male announcer off the frame said, “It’s been a while since we’ve seen or heard anything of Venus De Willendorf.”
A female announcer answered, “Not since she became the Venus De Rubens, Mike!”
Looking frantically for the button, Alaric tried to shut the device and the inane commentary off.
The male announcer, “Mike,” replied, “A little bird told me that she has something very exciting planned for us.”
“I can hardly wait!” the female announcer declared giddily.
Belatedly remembering that the holosphere was voice activated, Alaric commanded, “Turn off!”
The sphere went dark. Without power, it looked like a massive, ugly, dull black pearl. Remembering Volka’s bowed head, he had an urge to throw it at the wall. He set it on the nightstand instead.
“Want to get out of here?” James Sinclair asked.
Alaric’s head jerked toward the android before he remembered not to show his surprise. Sinclair looked as he always did. His unusually European facial features had not aged and never would. He was leaning against the door frame in an easy way that was incongruous with his severe expression. He held a parcel under one arm.
Alaric quickly ran through what he knew of Sinclair from experience and intel—the man—machine was a spy. He’d killed innocent, harmless civilians on Luddeccea before Revelation. That was the official line, but what he’d learned from Solomon painted a different picture. Sinclair and his wife—Admiral Noa Sato, sister of Archbishop Sato—had singlehandedly brought Time Gate 8’s reign of terror above Luddeccea to an end. And there was what Alaric had seen himself; Sinclair loved Noa Sato or was loyal to her at least.
Sinclair shifted away from the door frame. “Your doctor said if your vitals checked out, you’d be free to go. They check out now. He’d tell you himself, but he’s worked a twenty-four-hour shift. I offered to relay the news.”
“You know my vitals?” Alaric blinked.
Sinclair inclined his head toward Alaric’s arm. “It transmits the data to anyone with access.”
Flexing the hand of the arm with the augment, Alaric squelched the unease he felt about anyone reading his internal workings. It couldn’t be worse than having his mind read.
Sinclair added, “You should be able to sit up without pain.”
Alaric wasn’t sure he could trust Sinclair. Still, what he’d seen of this android didn’t make him suspect a slapstick sense of humor. This seemed unlikely to be a “gotcha” moment. He gently eased himself up an inch and then another. He exhaled in relief when no jolt of agony shot through his midsection. His abdomen did feel strange, though, stiff and heavy, like he wore a tight bandage just beneath the skin.
“It would be good to avoid strenuous exercise,” Sinclair said. “Your lungs will be partially constrained by the scaffold holding you together. I’ve been told you might faint.”
Alaric huffed. “I’m a captive princess.”
Smiling wryly, Sinclair tossed the parcel on Alaric’s bed. “You’re not a captive, Darmadi. The other I can’t comment on.”
The wry humor was shocking, even if Alaric had heard it before. He’d always been taught androids didn’t have a sense of humor. Keeping his face neutral, he glanced down at the parcel. It was clothing.
Sinclair’s voice became serious. “In about two hours, Volka and her crew will be escorting Ambassador Zhao to a neutral location for peace talks.”
“You think the talks will be useless,” Alaric said, just in case he was misreading the android’s inflection.
“I think at best it will be a slaughter.”
Alaric looked up at him in alarm.
Sinclair added hastily, “I think Volka will be fine. Her ship will drop the ambassador and his attaché off at a distance from the rendezvous point.”
Alaric stared at the holo’s dull depths. That made him feel marginally better. Still, he felt a bit of Volka’s outrage. “They could have asked my wife how it would go.” Alexis would be outraged at the waste of a life, too.
“They could have, but she wouldn’t be believed,” Sinclair added flatly. “Thought you might like to get a drink.”
Alaric looked out the window. It no longer faced Earth. If Volka was injured, this was the place she’d come. “I think I’d rather stay aboard the station.”
Sinclair nodded. “Of course. I know a place.”
Alaric thought of the officers’ lounge. He’d been admitted there while Alexis was recovering. He didn’t want to go there now or maybe ever again.
The atmosphere was … gray. Austere. Not at all like Luddeccean formal settings, which tended to feature handcrafted furnishings and paintings. He gazed around his room. Not that this place was an improvement over the lounge, but at least here he didn’t have to be on his guard. His gaze flicked to the android in mild annoyance—at least not while he was alone.
Sinclair’s voice was almost nervous when he added, “Not the officer’s lounge. Noa said that you must have gotten bored with it. The food is bland, and the atmosphere is … formal. I have another place in mind, not in the travel guides, where the locals go.”
That was … more interesting.
Sinclair placed a watch on top of the clothing. “Oh, and I have this for you. A gift from the Republic. It connects to the ethernet and has 3,000 Galactic credits preloaded.”
Alaric’s eyebrows rose. Spending money. Alaric needed—or at least wanted—a stylus to use on the tablet Volka had given him. He needed to write letters to his family; the Luddeccean embassy on Earth had offered to forward them for him. He didn’t want to dictate aloud, not with Galacticans around to listen. Anything he wrote would assuredly be read by Galactic spies and reviewed by Luddeccean intelligence, but he didn’t want to share with the spooks and every doctor, nurse, and orderly passing in the hallway as well. He didn’t like typing on touch screens, he preferred keys, but a stylus was as good or better, and he could purchase one on the gate’s promenade with Galactican credits.
He didn’t need the android to go to the shops, of course, but it appeared he had him. Why was he being given a minder this time? Last time he’d just been followed. It had been comical and annoying. He supposed a minder was at least straightforward, and the opportunity to see the real Republic—more than what was really a glorified airport—was interesting. “I’ll tak
e that drink,” he said to Sinclair.
The android nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him. Alaric slipped the watch on and surveyed the clothes—a light coat, trousers, and long-sleeve shirt. The fabrics were definitely Galactican, but they weren’t ostentatious or immodest. He’d blend in without feeling underdressed. He tossed them between his hands. Were they trying to recruit him? Of course they were. He thought of Alexis and his boys, his parents, brothers, and sister. Defection would destroy them. But he’d always wanted to see more of the Republic and couldn’t go home until he was better—he was allowed to play this game … just for a while.
Alaric tapped his newly acquired stylus on O’Flannagan’s Pub’s wooden bar. He never would have found the place himself. It was away from the main promenade, between a section of the gate where Fleet had an outpost and where Time Gate 1’s own citizens resided. “There is an O’Callaghan’s Pub near my parents’ homestead,” he commented, eyeing the mug of Guinness he was nursing. He could swallow it down and go back to his hospital room and write his letters, but he felt unsettled. He tapped the stylus on the bar.
“There’s not a civilized place in the galaxy without an Irish pub,” Sinclair said.
Alaric huffed. “I’m not sure you’d call my home province civilized.”
“I probably wouldn’t,” Sinclair admitted with the barest of smiles.
Sinclair was drinking a whiskey called Glenfiddich. Alaric had had some on his last visit. In general, he found food in the Republic bland, especially the meat. But Glenfiddich was better than any whiskey he’d had on Luddeccea, and the Guinness was unlike anything he’d had at home—it was so rich it was practically chocolate. His bottle said Guinness was founded in 1759, and he remembered reading that Glenfiddich was founded in the 1800s. They’d had centuries of uninterrupted tradition. After Time Gate 8 had dropped nuclear and chemical weapons on Luddeccea, the planet had received an influx of refugees from the Republic terrified by the knowledge that the Time Gates were true AI. Distilleries and breweries had been closed so food wouldn’t be diverted to alcohol production. He turned his bottle around in his hand, admiring the harp logo. There was so much access to tradition here.
