Willful Child

by Steven Erikson

  The Varekan pulled off his cap and smeared the line of grime from one side of his brow to the other. “I intend to propose a delegation team to visit this planet, sir, assuming it can be found again. If only to pick through the chip boards. Sir, I see a Varekan Nihilist Nobel Prize in my future. Which, while satisfying in a shallow sense, would certainly add to the pointless prestige of my curriculum vitae.”

  “That’s the spirit, man! Tammy, for Darwin’s sake, let’s do the right thing here, right? One extended finger. One tap. Boom! Hiss. Sigh. Blessed silence.”

  “Well, it’s not like I can stop you,” Tammy replied.

  “Not the point here. I know that, Tammy. What I want, is to hear you agree that it’s the thing to do. Stop sucking the lint in your navel, will you? Trust me, it only looks like lint.”

  “And the pets?”

  “The pests, you mean!”

  “Oh very well! The pests! They remain quasi-sentient life-forms!”

  “Fine, so we instruct HUB to skip the decontamination bit. Leave the bugs and gerbils to fight it out with the barking clubs. There! Is that better?”

  “I suppose.”

  Hadrian faced the screen again. “HUB!”

  “Captain Hadrian?”

  “No decontamination, understand?”

  “Yes, Captain Hadrian. HUB understands.”

  “Oh, and this. How much of the original allocated energy surge will you need to send those five kilobytes into Nirvana?”

  “Reduced to the infinitesimal, Captain Hadrian. Terran equivalent: one mostly depleted triple-A disposable battery.”

  “So … could you use the rest to translate this world back to its original system? I mean, a whole surface for the pests has to be preferable to these infernal tunnels, don’t you think? Imagine! You can reinitiate an entire planet’s natural evolution!”

  “Sure,” muttered Galk, sending a stream of brown gunk to the floor, “ruin everything for me, why don’t you.”

  “Nonsense, Galk,” said Hadrian. “At least this way, your buddies will find the damned place.”

  “Hmm, you have a point there, sir. I suppose you now expect me to thank you for being so considerate, which in effect makes the altruism of your gesture wholly self-serving, not that I’m shocked or anything by that.”

  HUB said, “This is possible, Captain Hadrian. HUB’s morality discriminators have ceased their hardware-ruining agitated state at the prospect. HUB thanks you. Strike any key.”

  “And you, Tammy?” Hadrian asked.

  “This is a painful admission, Captain,” said the AI. “In fact, you have no idea just how painful. But I must acknowledge the inherent genius and moral propriety of your solution.”

  “Hah! So take back all that shit about disappointing biologicals!”

  “I take it back.”

  “All right, HUB, have you reconfigured your shutdown sequence?”

  “Yes, Captain Hadrian. Strike any key.”

  Behind Hadrian the door slammed open and a half-dozen armored marines, covered in gore, backed into the room.

  Muffy limped over. “Captain. Four million plus boot-sized hostiles now converging on our position. We are ready to displace, sir. The LT has powered up the hopper and will rendezvous with us aboard the Willful Child.”

  “That’s fine, Muffy.” Hadrian held up a finger. “Here it is,” he said. “Everyone! See this finger? It is the finger of God! Watch it now, as it strikes any key!”

  He stabbed down and the finger stabbed home.

  After a moment, HUB said, “Keyboard malfunction. Strike any other key.”

  “Oh fuck!”

  Fortunately, the next one worked. There was a zap. On the screen, the octopod pulled out a weapon of some sort and slaughtered all its animated pets in a spray of bullets and goo, and then the Prefantaran waved good-bye with all its tentacles before vanishing in an elegant swirl of smoke. The screen went dark. The keyboard self-destructed into melted slag, smelling of bananas.

  “Displace!”

  An instant later, the marines and the three officers stood on the pods in the Insisteon room.

  Printlip awaited them with a small bag floating beside the doctor like a leather-skinned headless dog with handles. The surgeon rushed over to Buck DeFrank, the bag eagerly heeling.

  Hadrian deactivated his ‘skin and then bemusedly plucked at the shredded remnants of his shirt. “All right, glad that’s done. Muffy, will you take your helmet off now? I’d like to look you in the eye and thank you and all that.”

  “No, sir. This helmet never comes off. Marines need to be ready at any moment for full-fledged intergalactic conflict, sir.”

  “Really? Well, never mind, then. Tell me, is your LT off-planet yet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent! Muffy, have your LT join me on the bridge when she arrives.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then go find yourself a deck to billet on. Oh, and please confirm that Sweepy left a transponder behind, at least.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Tammy said, “Captain, why do I have this sinking feeling?”

  “Primary Directive! Another planet to claim for the Affiliation! Another world for the Terrans to settle, subjugate, and exploit! With luck,” Hadrian added as he made for the door, “my bosses will be so thrilled that all will be forgiven—why, I might even get a medal!”

  “That’s it!” Tammy snapped. “We’re going to meet the Misanthari with all guns blazing! Galactic war? You can count on it, Captain Hadrian!”

  “Bring it on!”

  Behind Hadrian, the marines all high-fived each other.

  NiNE

  Back on the bridge of the Willful Child, Captain Hadrian resumed his seat in the command chair.

  Sin-Dour left the science station to take position at his side. “Sir, the planet disappeared fourteen seconds ago.”

  “Of course it did, 2IC. It’s all down to my hands-on approach to command, which you should note as a lesson well worth heeding.”

  “Your hands-on approach resulted in the annihilation of the planet?”

  “Not at all. We simply sent it back into proper space, back where it came from, in fact.”

  “I see that your shirt is torn again.”

  Hadrian waved in dismissal. “And if that’s not enough, my dear, we may well have ended a billennia-long interspecies war. Returned to its original orbit, the planet’s cap of ice will melt, making the surface viable again. The praying mantises and the gerbils can pour out from their holes and forge independent nations on different continents, while the club-dogs can, well, lie around. Eventually, the various subspecies will all forget about each other as they advance into higher tech levels of sophistication, until finally some seagoing giant club-dog delivers a boatload of praying mantises onto the shores of the hapless hamsters, thus triggering a global conflict eventually resulting in a single dominant sentient species, one weaned on slaughter, mayhem, and genocide. And on that day, Sin-Dour, we’ll be looking at a serious rival.” He then raised a finger. “And that’s why the Affiliation needs to find that planet pronto, to better facilitate a peaceful transition into a state of utter subjugation to our technical superiority. Think of the lives we’ll save!”

  “A logical argument you have presented, sir.”

  “Logic? Who cares about logic? What I’m describing is the venal pragmatism of a voracious, appallingly shortsighted sentient species. Namely, us. Logic is simply the language of convenient rationalization in a pseudo-science-loving civilization. Tammy!”

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Are we on our way again? I can’t tell.”

  “We are,” the AI replied. “Exclusion Zone in eighteen point three-five minutes.”

  “Eighteen minutes? What do you think, 2IC? Enough time to get all sweaty in my stateroom?”

  “Sir? Probably not.”

  Hadrian sighed. “You’re right. I’ll have postpone thoroughly spanking you.”

  The bri
dge iris opened and an outrageously curvaceous woman dressed in combat fatigues stepped through. She walked up to stand before Hadrian, snapped a salute, and spoke around the fat half-smoked but temporarily unlit stogie clamped in the corner of her luscious mouth. “Lieutenant Samantha ‘Sweepy’ Brogan, Terran Marines, sir.”

  “I can’t believe I left you behind!”

  “The incredulity is mutual, sir. Do you have any complaints regarding the extraction team, sir?”

  “Not at all, barring the fact that your people refuse to remove their helmets.”

  “It’s better that way, sir.”

  “You mean, you don’t know what they look like either?”

  “No, sir, I don’t. Makes it easier to sleep through the night, sir.”

  Hadrian regarded her. Wide face, Asian eyes, long black hair piled into some kind of nest atop her exquisitely round head. High, flaring cheekbones, a delicate scar under the left eye, full lips painted deep red, the flash of white teeth as she spoke. He grunted his appreciation, and then said, “So you sleep well at night, do you, Lieutenant?”

  “I sleep the sleep of the damned, sir.”

  “And that sits well with you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How did you manage to track us down?” Sin-Dour asked, by way of rude interruption. “It is scientifically impossible—”

  Sweepy’s eyes flicked over to the 2IC. “We’re marines, Commander. We eat impossible for breakfast, shit it out before lunch, and then eat it all over again.”

  “Well, at least that one makes sense, kind of,” Hadrian said. “Outstanding, Lieutenant. How many squads in your complement?”

  “One active, two inactive.”

  “Inactive?”

  “On ice, sir.”

  “And presumably, we’ve met the active squad. Gunny Sergeant Muffy Slapp. Skulls, Chambers…”

  “And Lefty Lim, Sniper, Stables—our medic—and Charles Not Chuck, heavy weapons. They’re decent. Been downrange enough times to not get in a flap.”

  “Delighted to finally have you all aboard, Lieutenant,” said Hadrian, rising to his feet and smiling at her.

  She chewed on her stogie for a moment, and then flashed a brief smile that never reached her I’ll-kill-you-in-a-blink eyes. “Thank you, Captain. Is there anything else you want of me right now?”

  “Plenty, Lieutenant, but duty demands otherwise. Inform your squad that we’re about to engage a Misanthari Swarm and there may be hand-to-hand on multiple decks.”

  “I’ll put the iced teams on standby, sir.”

  “Hmm. If you need to take command of ship security squads, Lieutenant, you are so authorized. Oh, and liaise with our chief of security, Adjutant Lorrin Tighe.”

  “Yes, sir. Where is this adjutant?”

  “Passed out drunk in my office, LT. She might need a Spike to come around, but I’m sure you’re well equipped.”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I, then?”

  “Go on,” Hadrian said, pointing to the office door. “I know, it’s supposed to be a storage cabinet, but I assure you, it is my office, and you’ll find her in there.”

  He watched the marine cross the bridge, gaze fixing on the meaty sway of her behind.

  Sin-Dour cleared her throat. “We’re about to drop out of T space, Captain. Five minutes.”

  Hadrian sat again. “Tammy! Do you have those new beam weapons installed and ready to blaze away?”

  “And so begin a galactic war, Captain? Absolutely.”

  “Enough with the sulking, Tammy, and free the weapons to my combat specialist.”

  “Not a chance,” the AI replied. “He will be busy enough with the turrets, railguns, and missiles. Besides, only I have authorization to use my weapons.”

  “I am not happy about that, Tammy.”

  “Oh boo hoo. I’d show you my virtual violin but it’s submolecular.”

  Sweepy reappeared with a still-unconscious and now mostly naked adjutant slung over one shoulder. “Captain, I think I’ll just drop her off at sickbay on my way down. She’d need five Spikes just to come around and that’d be a waste. Permission to assume overall command of ship security.”

  “Granted, Sweepy. Best get on with it, too.”

  As she passed him, Hadrian raised a hand. “Oh, by the way, Lieutenant, I understand that what you discovered in my office might seem, well, a contravention of regulations and, indeed, decorum. But I assure you, it’s only half as bad as you think.”

  She studied him, plucked out her stogie, and said, “Captain. I’m on a vessel in the Terran Space Fleet, which is just a puffed-up name for fucking Navy mop-pushers, if you’ll excuse the expression. So … no, I have no opinion, sir, none at all.”

  “It’s no surprise,” Hadrian said, “that with soldiers like you, Lieutenant, we’ve conquered a tenth of the galaxy.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Dismissed, Sweepy. Good hunting.”

  Out she went with the adjutant like a sack draped over her shoulder.

  Sin-Dour had returned to the science station, and now announced, “Exclusion Zone ETA, thirty seconds!”

  “Stay calm, 2IC,” said Hadrian. “Red alert. Forward viewscreen on. Thrusters primed for combat readiness, all weapons loose. Stand by, Helm.”

  The Willful Child rattled as the twin railguns powered up and loaded projectiles.

  In his mind Hadrian pictured the countless corridors and operations rooms in his Engage-class starship, while he floated like an invisible ghost and watched his crew running about as the red-alert beacons flashed. Seeing one man trip and slam into a wall, the captain shook his head to clear it. “Nice and calm, now,” he said to his bridge officers. “Panic won’t do, not on this ship. If I have to—holy freaking crap!”

  The Willful Child dropped out of T space to find itself in the midst of an enormous space battle. Counter-class Terran warships were blazing from every weapon cluster, missiles spinning, flaring and curving round as they chased dozens of Misanthari swarmships. Oblong red blobs splashed against Terran shields even as inert kinetic strikes blossomed in vast bruises against the protective energy screens.

  One Counter-class vessel, the ASF Cruel Without Cause, was visibly staggering to a barrage of kinetic strikes, and an instant later its port shield collapsed. Red blobs raced in to explode in smears against the ship’s hull. The acid made the hull armor boil, and in each place the dark splodge that was huddled inside the crimson goop unfolded its weapon-studded limbs as it readied to drop through the imminent breach.

  “Sir!” Sin-Dour cried. “They got here ahead of us! The Misanthari Rage Index is Grey Point Two! Captain! Two points left until Pure White!”

  Tammy crowed, its laughter echoing through the ship. “Galactic war! Hahahahaha! Serves you right, Captain Hadrian!”

  “Galk! Target the swarmships around the Cruel Without Cause! Helm! Ignite the antimatter engines, twenty percent acceleration exponential to point six-nine!”

  “Captain,” shouted Sin-Dour, “that’ll plough us right through the engagement!”

  “That’s right, 2IC,” Hadrian said. “Oh, we’ll take a few potshots and maybe help out our erstwhile fellow Terrans who happen to be hunting us on a shoot-first basis. But this ruckus here, why, clearly someone messed up on the diplomatic front. In other words, not our problem. Tammy! Target that big Swarm-Mother—the flashing-flagged one to starboard—that’s where most of the red blobs are coming from. We’ll do a drive-by. Beam weapon, baby! Hit it, Tammy!”

  Loud twanging country music filled the bridge.

  “What the hell? Tammy!”

  The music stopped. “Sorry, Captain,” said Tammy. “Some sleeper command in my matrix.”

  “The beam weapon! Hit that ship! Hit it hard!”

  A scintillating, actinic line blazed out from the Willful Child, cutting through the enemy shields and striking amidships.

  “Direct hit!” cried Joss Sticks.

  Nothing happened.

  Hadrian scowled. “T
ammy! What kind of beam was that?”

  “It’s a particle beam. Must I get all technical with you?”

  “Sorry I asked. Well, you hit the Swarm-Mother. What kind of damage did you deliver?”

  “I appear to have turned a square centimeter of its hull into glass.”

  “Glass? What’s the point of that?”

  “Evidently, it is very effective where I came from, I suppose.”

  “Your makers—what are they, Galactic Voyeurs?”

  “I have another beam-weapon configuration, Captain, but I should warn you, it’s—”

  “Lock on the same target and fire it, damn you!”

  The beam that erupted from the Willful Child’s bow seemed to cut a slash through the fabric of space itself. Striking the Swarm-Mother, it turned the capital ship into a cloud of twinkling dust.

  “Darwin preserve us!” cried Sin-Dour in a hushed, shocked tone.

  The other Misanthari vessels were breaking off.

  Moments later, the Willful Child cleared the area of engagement and continued on, still accelerating. “Tammy,” said Hadrian, “what was that thing?”

  “A Folded Actuating DM Target-Disassembler Irrefutable-Assertion Beam.”

  “Oh,” said Hadrian, “one of those, huh? Listen, we’ll need a better name for it, I think.”

  “What does ‘DM’ refer to, Tammy?” Sin-Dour asked from the science station. She was frowning down at her sensor readings. “That is,” she added, “I’m getting some unusual perturbations in our wake—”

  “DM, Commander,” said Tammy, “refers to dark matter, of course. As I was attempting to tell your captain, this particular beam has a few side effects, principally, the terminal, irreversible thinning of the substrate of dark matter upon which the fabric of this universe is, shall we say, hung. If you wish a schematic of the effect, imagine a dimple in what should be a taut, stretched, and mostly level substrate. Given the current cross-flow of dark matter, which always runs perpendicular to the continued expansion of the universe, thus maintaining observable cohesion, this dimple is asymmetrical, with the greatest thinning effect at the apex as seen from against the expansion of the universe.”