Willful Child: Wrath of Betty

by Steven Erikson

  “Of course you will! Tammy? Please set aside your being peeved with me and respond objectively to the following queries.”

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Given your understanding of military command structure, is there anything about being liked or even being popular to be found in the remit for being a competent captain of a starship?”

  “No.”

  “Or that said captain should mitigate discussions to achieve consensus among the officers?”

  “No. This would of course interfere with the necessity of command decisions made in real time, particularly in instances of extreme danger.”

  “Is not the burden of command a necessary component in the regulation psycho-schematic prerequisites of individuals assessed to be suitable for command responsibilities?”

  “Absolutely, and I concur with your unspoken conclusion. Fleet HQ has lost what’s left of its collective mind.”

  “Hmm, so it seems. Now, Tammy, would you kindly displace Lieutenant Commander Trae back to the station?”

  “Displacing now.”

  Lieutenant Commander Deepdish Trae vanished from the bridge.

  Tammy said, “She is now back in the lobby of the Station Hotel.”

  “Excellent!” Hadrian activated his comms switch on the chair arm. “Lieutenant Sweepy Brogan? Station a squad at the Docking Bay, with orders to deny entrance to one Lieutenant Commander Deepdish Trae.”

  A laconic voice replied, “Confirmed, Captain. Justification for preventing her return?”

  “She wants to talk to you and your marines about your feelings.”

  “Understood, sir. Safeties off, then. Brogan out.”

  Sighing, Sin-Dour wiped at her brow. “Captain, what is happening to our Fleet? And how come I wasn’t informed of this new initiative?”

  “My apologies, 2IC,” Hadrian said, settling back into his chair, somewhat shakily. “I thought it was a joke.”

  Brogan’s voice crackled on the comms. “Captain! Target is seeking entry again! She keeps trying to apologize! Permission to open fire, sir?”

  “Negative, Sweepy. Just bar the door and, uh, weld it shut. We can fix it later.”

  “Very well, Captain. But under protest!”

  “So noted,” Hadrian replied.

  Polaski started in his chair. “Captain! Emergency Message from Fleet Command! We’re to depart immediately for the Polker Interstices Sector, Priority One-Alpha-Two-Beta!”

  “Helm! Pull the plugs! Polaski, any details in that message?”

  “Uh, not much sir. Only that an alien entity four parsecs wide and twenty deep is on an intercept course with Terra, destroying everything in its path.”

  “Oh, just that, huh? And we’re the only Engage Class starship in range to get in its way, right?”

  “Yes sir! How did you know that?”

  “Don’t!” groaned Tammy.

  But Hadrian smiled. “Sometimes I think,” he said musingly, “that this entire universe was made … just for me.”

  “Aaaagh!” roared Tammy.

  “Disengaging, like, now, sir!” said Jocelyn Sticks.

  “Bring us around and get us clear. Tammy, as our temporary Chief Engineer, prime the T-Drive. Polaski, pass on the coordinates. Helm, plot us a course—”

  “Sir!” said Polaski. “A small unidentified alien vessel is approaching us. We are being hailed.”

  Hadrian frowned. “What’s this? Put them on, Comms.”

  Polaski complied. On the viewscreen a strange globular vessel materialized, and the bridge was filled with a quavering, whiny voice. “Please consider this a formal apology for—”

  Upon seeing the vessel, Hadrian hit the override on the chair’s arm. “Oh crap! Steer clear of them. Ignore all future hails. Helm, prepare to engage the T-Drive. Tammy!”

  “Whatever.”

  Hadrian made a fist. “Listen here, Tammy! We’re about to face another insanely powerful alien entity bent on annihilation!” He rose to his feet, drawing the attention of everyone on the bridge. “Alone, this one ship, this frail, lonely Willful Child, will be all that stands between all that we hold dear—if somewhat contemptuously—and oblivion! This is what we’re made for! Now, Tammy Wynette, put some spark into that modestly discriminating quantum-neural spatially dilated lump of circuits you call your brain, and get on board!”

  “Oh sure, why not?” muttered Tammy. “Get everyone’s adrenaline pumping! Have you even checked on those coordinates, oh Mighty Captain Hadrian? We’ve got three days of T-travel just to get there, and with the T-Space Protocol that translates to six days real time! Doesn’t that strike you as a bit odd? I mean, we and our lonely, frail starship are six days away from the entity, and we’re the only ship close enough to intercept?” Tammy paused and then said, “Captain, you’re being set up.”

  “Are you saying someone at Fleet HQ wants me dead?”

  “Dead, in disrepute, defrocked, the object of universal disgust, your name vilified for all time, your grave site annually spat upon by countless millions, your—”

  “Is this quiet satisfaction I’m hearing from you, Tammy? Much better! Now, engage the T-Drive!”

  Tammy sighed. “Here we go again. T-Drive engaging. Oh, and what was it about that strange bulbous ship we just ran into?”

  Hadrian grimaced. “Long story. Classified.”

  “Oh,” crooned Tammy. “You’ve just told me where to look … accessing, breaking encryption … ah, here! It’s … oh, oh my. Right. Got it, Captain.”

  “Objections?”

  “To evading contact with them? Nope. Not one.”

  “Good.” Hadrian rose. “Sin-Dour, you have the con.”

  “Yes sir.”

  STAR-YEAR Zero-Nexus,

  Temporal Observation Bubble 23 …

  “There he goes,” murmured Temporal Agent Tuggnutter, eyes narrowing as the pixelated image of the Willful Child dropped into T-Space and vanished from sight. “So,” he continued musingly, “is this the one, then?”

  Beside him, Agent Clittersob was studying his handheld device. “Well, according to this new Hadrian-Specific Timeline EFFing-you-pee Probability Gauge, probably not.”

  Tuggnutter suddenly frowned. “Hold on, let’s see that.” He snatched the device from his companion’s hands and studied the label. “Ha, look at that! We’ve been reading it wrong! EFFing must mean, uh, Fucking! And that U and P—well, I bet they go together to make, uh, UP! So…” he frowned.

  Clittersob slapped his forehead. “Fucking Up! It’s a Hadrian-Specific Timeline Fucking-Up Gauge!”

  Smiling and shaking his head, Tuggnutter said, “Those techies, huh? Clever bastards.”

  “Well,” said Clittersob, sighing as he leaned back in the floating cushion chair inside the invisible temporal bubble that no one else could see, “should we follow him anyway?”

  “Not sure,” Tuggnutter said. “Let me check this screen here.” He pulled up a hinged door to reveal a small screen on the console attached to his chair’s armrest. “Hmm, not seeing anything.”

  “Turn it on maybe?” Clittersob wondered.

  “That’s an idea. Here…” He leaned close. “Let’s see, there’s got to be a button somewhere.”

  “This is what happens when we haven’t been trained yet,” Clittersob said, with a groan.

  “The horrors of temporal paradox,” Tuggnutter muttered, nodding as he prodded and waved at the screen. “That first jump sent us back to three years before we signed up, in order to keep us from knowing things that other people don’t know, thus ensuring that we know nothing useful to anyone—”

  “In case of capture,” Clittersob said, also nodding. “I know, it sucks. But what can you do?”

  “That’s just it, though. I don’t know. What to do, I mean. How can I?” And he looked across at Clittersob.

  Who flinched. “Don’t look at me! I’m only seventeen, barely out of elementary school!”

  “Really? Wow, they really sent you back, didn’t they?�
��

  “I must’ve known something super important.”

  “I bet you did. Wonder what it was.”

  “No idea,” Clittersob admitted, and then brightened. “But one day I will!”

  “And then they’ll send you back again, since it’s not safe knowing stuff. Hey, look at this! Looks like a button, here on the wall.”

  “Think it activates that screen?”

  “Could be. Shall we find out?”

  Clittersob rubbed his jaw. “Not sure. What do you think?”

  Shrugging, Tuggnutter said, “Not sure either. The briefing didn’t say nothing about a button.”

  “What briefing?”

  Tuggnutter blinked, then quickly looked away. “Well,” he mumbled, “the one I got before you were woken up.”

  “What’s that? You got a briefing? What did it say?”

  “Well, since I got seniority here, it gave me your reset switch, among other things.”

  Clittersob scowled and then edged away. He pulled out a small device. “They gave me one for you, too! From my pre-briefing briefing!”

  Scrambling, Tuggnutter found his own Resetter. He flicked open the lid on the switch and rested his thumb on it.

  Swearing, Clittersob did the same with his Resetter.

  They glared at each other.

  Tuggnutter pressed the switch. There was a flicker, and then—

  Beside him, Agent Clittersob was studying his handheld device. “Well, according to this new Hadrian-Specific Timeline EFFing-you-pee Probability Gauge, probably not.” Clittersob then frowned at seeing the Resetter in his hand. He swore and stabbed the switch.

  Tuggnutter flickered. “There he goes,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as the pixelated image of the Willful Child dropped into T-Space and vanished from sight. “So,” he continued musingly, “is this the one, then?” Noticing the Resetter he held, he hissed and activated it.

  “Was I asleep?” Clittersob asked groggily, a moment before he pressed the Resetter.

  Tuggnutter rubbed at his eyes. “Where are we?” Click!

  “Who am I?” Click!

  “Who’s he?” Click!

  Click! Click! Click!

  After a time, the screen in the Bubbleship flickered to life to reveal a face that peered into the Temporal Bubble’s cockpit, and then, with a sigh, turned to someone off-screen. “They’ve done it again, Shattenkrak. Get the Master Resetter warmed up.”

  “But we just did that!” Shattenkrak whined. “I mean, come on, Klinghanger!”

  “Did we just do that? I don’t remember—hey, is that a Resetter in your pocket?”

  “What? No! I mean—” Click!

  STAR-YEAR 81564KKlYj.98!@#$%^&*()_+.21,

  T-Space

  Day One, 0:57 hrs …

  Combat Specialist Galk sat at his usual table in Set to Stun, the officers’ lounge in the Forward Deck of the Willful Child. Discovering his glass empty, he looked up from under the bill of his green-and-white Co-op baseball cap and grunted to draw the attention of the bartender, the mysterious Chemise le Rouge, who sidled over, pausing to adjust her strange hat of lizard skin and lollipops.

  “Another one?” she asked.

  He turned to send a stream of brown into the spittoon on the floor to his left, then nodded. Shifting the wad of chaw in his mouth he said, “I’m guessing you’re some kind of human/alien hybrid.”

  “To you,” she said as she prepared his Misanthari Martini, “I’m sure I am.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Her answer was a sly smile, and nothing more.

  Galk studied her, scratching at the bristle on his chin. “Where did the Cap’n find you anyway? And what’s with this bar’s strange name?”

  “The name, I can’t say. Captain’s prerogative to name this establishment any way he chooses.” She gave the canister a quick shake, then poured him his drink. “As for me, well, one day I just turned up, you could say.”

  “That ain’t no Fleet uniform, either.”

  “Because I’m not in the Fleet.”

  “Right. Meaning you ain’t even supposed to be on board.”

  “How’s the martini?”

  “A bit light on the Misanthari electrolytes.”

  “To be expected, sir, since those ‘electrolytes’ are actually immature Misanthari.”

  Galk grimaced. “Huh. Y’mean … like, tadpoles?”

  “Photeric species propagate the Light Fantastic.”

  He frowned at her. She smiled.

  “Guess it’s illegal, huh? Them … electrolytes.”

  “For this usage, yes, one should assume so. That said, I doubt we have any adult Misanthari aboard this vessel, so you are probably safe. Indeed, had they any inkling…”

  “Beam weapons.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Galk drained his glass and held it out for another. “Cap’n’s obsessed with beam weapons. I wasn’t sure at first, but now, yeah, I get it. S’all down to coherence parameters determining the gauge and concentration of energy output, and that’s where the quantum antigrav kicks in. Y’can’t see into a beam blast, of course, but if you could, you’d see that swirling, strung-out flux, looking like a stretched coil. That’s the secret of coherence.”

  She served up his refill. “You like weapons, don’t you?”

  “It ain’t the weapon, Chemise, it’s the destruction and obliteration and flames and wreckage that put a smile on my face. If I could do all that with a bowl of lutefisk, why, I’d be talkin’ up lutefisk.”

  She’d lost all color in her face. “Please, don’t.” Then her liquid gaze shifted slightly as someone else arrived. “Ah, Lieutenant Commander, welcome.”

  Galk turned, his brows lifting as Halley Sin-Dour eased onto the stool beside him.

  “Chemise,” she said, “a lager if you would.”

  “It’s this downtime, ain’t it?” Galk said. “T-Space.”

  Sin-Dour said, “Are you not supposed to be on station, Mr. Galk? Any wayward flare of imagination from anyone on board could populate T-Space, posing a direct threat to this vessel and her crew.”

  “Tammy’s got it in hand,” Galk replied. “Besides, the Scrubbots need more time to clean up the controls and whatnot.”

  “Ah yes, your … chaw.”

  “Mr. Galk was just discussing beam weapons,” Chemise said.

  Sin-Dour nodded. “How unusual.”

  “Hey!” Galk objected. “At least it’s not ‘Cap’n did that’ and ‘Cap’n said that’ and ‘Cap’n took off his—’”

  Her eyes were wide as she interrupted him. “Combat Specialist, you’ve had too much to drink.”

  “Right, well it’s a bar, ain’t it? Anyway, I didn’t mean nothing by it. Every 2IC obsesses over their captain. Comes with the territory, I suppose.”

  After a moment of glaring at one another, they both settled down once again. Sin-Dour ordered another beer.

  Galk sighed. “It’s moments like these,” he said. “Like … islands of sanity.”

  “The captain blew up another Fabricator,” Sin-Dour said. “That polyester thing.”

  “I’ll wear any uniform he wants me to wear,” said Galk. “S’long as I got me beam weapons. Oh, and I get to keep my baseball cap.”

  Chemise le Rouge eased back, wisely saying nothing. Which was a good thing since, despite outward appearances, she wasn’t thinking anything anyway. The problem was, even she didn’t know how she’d got here.

  Day Two, 02:43 hrs …

  “… is once again denied. Carry on. Prim out.”

  Security Adjutant Lorrin Tighe hit the monitor kill switch. She ran trembling hands through her unkempt hair, and then lit another cigarette while at the same time reaching for her wine glass. She stared at the blank screen.

  Three cigarettes and two glasses of wine later, she stood up, paused briefly to find her balance, and made her way to the door. A glance back showed her the jumbled mess of dirty laundry, overflowing ashtrays and Twinkies
wrappers that now littered her modest quarters. She frowned, tugged here and there at her uniform, and made her way out. In the corridor beyond she stood for a time, watching personnel heading up and down the passageway, each one on their way to some vital task. The sight of it made her want to vomit, preferably onto every damned person in sight.

  Lighting another cigarette—to the horror and shock of crewmembers passing to and fro—she made her weaving way to the nearest lift. A short time later she found herself standing at the door to the Medical Bay.

  Dropping the butt and crushing it under one heel, she entered.

  Dr. Printlip had fallen off the raised walkway and the Belkri beach-ball alien was now rolling about, trying to find his feet. There were no nurses or surgeons in sight. Tighe ambled over and, with one foot, pushed the doctor upright once more.

  “Ah! Thank you, Lieutenant! Most embarrassing—”

  “I think I’m a hologram, Doc.”

  Printlip’s eyeballs all tilted toward her on their noodle-like stalks. “Hmm, I see.”

  “I don’t think this is me,” she continued. “I think I’m lying drugged on some cot somewhere, strapped in.”

  The eyeballs all twitched to a closed door leading to the Private Ward, then back again. “Indeed.” Printlip inflated as he drew a deep breath. “Well, there is a theory that we are all, in fact, nothing more than holographic projections.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Holographic projections, Lieutenant. Subject to the whims of some unknown but possibly mentally perverse creator…”

  “And my ears are blocked and my head is throbbing. I’m having trouble hearing you.”

  “Hmnuh ghtbmk kkjinmlsj. Sibbhe donhj.”

  Tighe studied the doctor. “What was that?”

  Printlip cleared his throat with what sounded like an anal wheeze, and then said, “Perhaps you should sit down. Here, yes, on this bed. Lie down … yes, that’s good.”

  “The room keeps spinning.”

  “Yes, of course, we are in space. Now then, just let me attach these restraints, hmm? Excellent.”

  “We have artificial gravity. The ship doesn’t spin.”

  “No, of course not, since any decent programmer would make allowances for impossible technologies.…”