Willful Child

by Steven Erikson

  “That could take some time.”

  “How long?”

  “Three minutes.”

  Hadrian made for the nearest elevator. He entered and said, “Bridge.” As the elevator hissed its way upward, Hadrian asked, “The Klang spies, Tammy? Tell me they’re frozen lumps spiraling through space right now.”

  “They are sentient life-forms, Captain. You are advocating murder.”

  “What, unlike blasting Radulak Bombast ships to smithereens?”

  “That was a military engagement. Which, as I understand your manner of usage, justifies virtually anything.”

  “But aren’t the Klang now at war with us?”

  “We both know,” said Tammy, “that the war is probably already over. The Klang will have sent a T packet to the Affiliation proclaiming their abject surrender, begging for reparation over the lost drone, and then inviting in the Affiliation’s economic might, all for the purpose of ultimately subverting and undercutting Affiliation production, until you are all financially ruined and hopelessly dependent on cheap Klang knockoffs of virtually everything. Such are the stated conclusions in your top-secret file, subtitled Xenophobic Paranoia.”

  “That wasn’t the subtitle.”

  “It is, now. I amended it.”

  The elevator halted, but Hadrian remained where he was. “Look, it’s important that we protect our massively inefficient Guild-defined production practices, which were implemented in order to ensure people have things to do apart from staring bleary-eyed at social networks for eighteen fucking hours a day. You know, I may have lots of problems with the Affiliation—”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, we’re fascistic and overmilitarized being governed by reactionary undereducated proud-to-be-ignorant meatheads, for one thing.”

  “Go on.”

  “But on this front, why, they got it right. Before the Big Pulse wiped most of that shit off the screens, things were pretty bad, Tammy. In fact, most of the world’s bloated population had gone so deep into their navel-gazing they were peeking out through their assholes, and complaining about the smell. I remember that generation, you know—my own grandparents, in fact. They had the attention span of ducks. There were even names for them. Twit-Gen, for example. And Tankers—since they tanked at anything demanding more than five minutes’ concentration. Oh sure, they could multitask at ten things at once, and do them all equally badly. If the Big Pulse didn’t trash the whole game, we would probably have merged into one giant protein bag quivering across the whole fucking planet in one long eternal masturbatory orgasm.”

  “Thus sparing the rest of the galaxy the horrors of what actually happened.”

  “They knew it even back then,” Hadrian said. “Called it the Singularity Event. But then … Pandora’s box, Tammy. Those idiot aliens opened the box, and what spilled out? Us! But to be honest, we’re turning into dolts again. I blame mindless entertainment. Door open, please.”

  Hadrian walked the corridor, nodding at passing crew members, and arrived at the bridge. He found his chief engineer waiting beside the command chair. “Ah, hello again, Buck, and how are we?”

  “I was updated, sir, on the alien intruder.”

  “Oh? How nice.”

  “We checked engineering, and found a small access vent had been jimmied open.”

  “And?”

  “Well, that’s the problem, Captain. It leads down into the sewers.”

  Hadrian sat down, thoughtful. He scratched his jaw, squinted at the main viewer, which was showing the real starscape dead ahead. Then he sighed and said, “Buck, tell me, if you will, why in Darwin’s name are there sewers on this starship?”

  “Backup, sir, in case the Waste Conversion Happy-Snack Dispenser System breaks down.”

  “Oh? And has that system ever broken down? On any starship? Ever?”

  “No, sir. Why should it? It’s an entire self-contained biosystem with almost infinite redundancy options due to the prescient nanotechnology we inherited from our benefactors.”

  Hadrian rubbed his eyes. “Tammy?”

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Are there vid specks in the sewer system?”

  “That’s disgusting. Anyway, it’s not in use and thus requires no maintenance.”

  “So why is there a maintenance vent? Anyone?”

  Buck shrugged. “Redundancy, sir. The Second and Third Laws of Mechanical Engineering, as defined by the Guild and sanctioned by the Umbrella Dictum Extempor Procreator, Publishing Division. I have a signed copy if you’d like a peek, sir.”

  Hadrian studied Buck. “You’re looking … better.”

  The chief engineer straightened. “Thank you, sir. I am.”

  “Medicated?”

  “To the gills, sir.”

  “Excellent. So, the alien’s down in the sewers now. And those tunnels presumably offer access to the entire ship.”

  “Yes, sir, via the toilet secondary chutes.”

  “Right. Vicious alien intruder. Up through the toilets. With scalpel in hand.”

  All the men on the bridge cringed, whether standing or seated, and Hadrian did the same. Fighting off a shudder, the captain stood. “Buck, just how big are these sewers?”

  “Well, sir, the main arteries have walkways, and then there’s the feeder shunts, but only ’bots can get into most of those.”

  “Fire up the ’bots, full-bore highest setting scrubbers, and send ’em in. Tammy, lock down those secondary chutes pronto! For the moment, we dump bilge in our wake. Security! Ah, Nina! Round up three more teams—we’ll rendezvous in the main tunnel of the sewer and—”

  “You won’t be needing them, Captain,” spoke a sultry voice behind Hadrian.

  He turned round. “Lieutenant Sweepy! You’ve been brought up to speed?”

  She was lighting a new stogie from the stub of the last one. Around it, she said, “We’ve been monitoring. Squad’s heading down to the main tunnel right now. I’m heading there from here, to coordinate the smackdown. Care to join me, Captain? Could be a bloodfest.”

  “That explains the lurid gleam in your eyes—oh, no, that was just the lighter’s reflection. Sorry. As for joining you, of course I’m joining you.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “Where’s the light switch? Tammy, brighten those up, will you? I can barely see a thing.”

  “I am sorry, Captain, but that’s as bright as they go.”

  “What?”

  “All right all right. There, is that better?”

  “And nix the drip-drip-dripping crap, and those hollow moaning sounds.”

  “Fine.”

  The marine squad was assembled just ahead, facing an enormous green-painted tunnel that, according to the map on the wall, curved and snaked its way through the core of the ship. Somewhere ahead, the lights were flickering.

  “Tammy!”

  The lights stopped flickering.

  Sweepy Brogan threw down her rolled-up poncho and sat on it, spending a moment getting comfortable, before setting up her combat station, which consisted of a small holotank, three floating panels and a hovering ashtray to take her cigar. Lighting up, she glanced up at Hadrian. “I’m set here, sir. Care to take ’em in?”

  Hadrian looked across at Muffy and his squad. All were armed with bats painted in green camouflage patterns, a couple of them bedecked with plastic leaves and clumps of moss. Hadrian hefted his own bat. “All right, boys and girls, it’s time to play ball.”

  Muffy gestured and one of his marines set out to take point. The others fanned out to the sides, weapons at the ready. At a second gesture, the squad began a slow, cautious advance. Hadrian moved up alongside Muffy as they rounded a bend in the tunnel. “You’re seeming a little jumpy here, Gunny.”

  “We saw the pics of that skinned rat, sir.”

  “So you know what we’re up against here.”

  “Aye, Captain. We’re talking the chicken from hell, sir.”

  Up ahead, the marine on point halted, raised one h
and, and then crouched. The next marine nearest him (or her) moved up and the two conferred for a moment, and then the second marine made her (or his) way back to settle down beside Muffy. “Gunny. Got an obstacle ahead. There’s a chute in the ceiling—looks like a few ’bots dropped down from it, at high speed. They’re smashed all to pieces on the floor ahead.”

  Hadrian frowned at Muffy. “We could be subvocalizing all this via our comms, Gunny.”

  “Maybe, sir, but could be the frequency’s compromised.”

  “By a chicken?”

  “They got sensitive beaks, chickens do. Can pick up sonic vibrations. Now, I’m not saying it would understand what we were saying—I’m not saying that, sir. I mean, it’s a chicken-thing, right? Sir, it’s armed and all, and probably smarter than your average hen, but even so—we’d be giving away our position, is what I’m saying.”

  “Uhm, right. Okay, shall we go take a look at the wrecked ’bots?”

  “Aye, sir. But carefully, like.”

  They moved ahead, came up alongside the point marine.

  Muffy said, “Charles Not Chuck, cover us.”

  The marine raised his bat.

  Side by side, Hadrian and Muffy edged closer to the wreckage. “I count three,” Hadrian whispered.

  “Three hulls, sir,” said Muffy. “But there’s parts missing from all of ’em. They’ve been cannibalized, Captain.”

  “To make what?”

  “Can’t say, sir, but if I had to guess, I’d say a mech-bot.”

  “A mech-bot? Well, how big a mech-bot?”

  Muffy shrugged in his armor. “Height … eighteen, maybe twenty.”

  “Feet? How could that even fit in here?”

  The master gunnery sergeant swung his opaque face mask in the captain’s direction. “Not feet, sir. Inches. So, could be a servo-bot—something the chicken would wear.”

  Hadrian studied the wreckage. “So, it ran these ’bots off a cliff, as if they were, what, a bunch of buffalo. Then from the wreckage, it built itself a suit of animated battle armor. And now’s it’s clunking its way through the sewers.”

  “I’m feeling sorry for the rats, sir.”

  “You were right, Gunny,” said Hadrian. “Not your average chicken.”

  “Gunny! Twelve o’clock high!”

  In a flash Muffy flung himself to one side, rolling. Hadrian spun the other way, as a metallic form dropped down from the chute. A probe shot out from a hinged rocket tube on the mech’s right shoulder, punching through the faceplate of Charles Not Chuck. Gurgling, the marine pitched backward, falling with a clatter.

  Muffy’s bat swung down, but the mech darted to one side, neatly evading it. Hadrian swung his own bat on a savage, horizontal arc. The mech ducked it. The bat continued its sweep to smash into Muffy’s left knee. Howling, the sergeant crumpled.

  Behind them all, the rest of the squad rushed forward with their bats.

  The mech shot another probe that punched through the armor of another marine, the steel spear plunging deep into the soldier’s left thigh. As the marine fell, another marine tripped over him or her. Bats bounced free to clatter down the tunnel. The mech charged into the fray, scalpel flashing.

  “Pull back!” someone bellowed. “Regroup!”

  Hadrian saw the mech clamber onto the chest of a supine marine, the scalpel carving deep gouge across the soldier’s faceplate. When the marine brought a bat up to smash into the creature, it danced away at the last instant. The bat hammered into the soldier’s head.

  Wood splinters, shattered tiles, shrieks and screams, bodies writhing on the blood-smeared floor—it was a moment before Hadrian realized that the fighting was over. The mech was gone, racing up the tunnel and then, at a bend, disappearing from sight.

  Gasping, Hadrian clambered upright. “I got a good look at that thing,” he said. “Inside all that mech-gear.”

  Hunched over his wounded knee, Muffy lifted his helmed head. “What did you see, sir? I didn’t get me a good look. Anyone else?”

  A babble of voices answered him from his squad, all in the negative. Too fast, too vicious, no time.

  Hadrian spat onto the floor. “White. Downy. Short but sharp yellow beak, and the eyes of an insane killer—Darwin help me, I’ll never forget those eyes!”

  “So it is a chicken,” Muffy said in a rasp.

  Hadrian nodded. “I’m afraid so, Gunny.”

  “A fuckin’ pecker!”

  “You got it.”

  Lieutenant Sweepy Brogan arrived, looked around. “What a fubaric mess. So, you got us an ID, Captain? Chicken. Well, sir, if you’ll forgive the language, screw the bats. For this, we need the big guns.”

  Tammy then spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, I can confirm the species identification, with certain additional details. Evolution in action, my friends. It seems that the chickens have had their fill of farms, coops, and generations of unmitigated torture and slaughter. They have finally decided to fight back, and Darwin has answered their prayers. The creature with which you are all now engaged in battle is in fact a product of natural eugenics, possibly even punctuated equilibrium—it is, yes, a superchicken. And if you look at things from that creature’s point of view, well, you humans drew first blood, a few thousand years ago. And now, it’s payback time.”

  Sweepy lit up her cigar. “It wants war, does it? Then let’s give it what it wants. In spades. But for now, a tactical withdrawal. Muffy, how’s Charles Not Chuck?”

  “Got three nostrils now, LT, but otherwise, fine.”

  “And you?”

  “Nothing a vat of nanogel won’t set right, sir. We’re all alive, and damned lucky for it, I’d say.”

  Tammy spoke again. “I can now inform you that the superchicken has commandeered five service ’bots. They have been reprogrammed and refitted for combat. Indeed, rather cleverly so. Anyway, you will now be facing five small tanks in addition to the superchicken and its personal exoskeletal combat suit.”

  “Tanks?” LT scowled. “Weapon load, Tammy?”

  “Coprolitic. Armor-piercing, Lieutenant.”

  Hadrian straightened. “Hold on here! Tammy! Coprolites? Those tanks are shooting fossilized shit?”

  “Assisted fossilization, Captain. Attenuated, enhanced. Accelerated. Deadly, but not smelly.”

  “So,” said Hadrian, “this isn’t a pissing contest anymore, is it? Fine. Sweepy, I’m leaving this war to you and your marines. Take no prisoners. If that superchicken survives to get off this ship—if it then breeds more of its own kind—well, we could be looking at the end of life as we know it. Not just in this galaxy, but across the entire universe.”

  “Understood, Captain,” said Sweepy. “Leave the bird to us, sir. Stables! Break out the flamethrowers! We got us a chicken to roast.”

  Hadrian set off for the bridge. “I don’t know, Tammy,” he said as he approached an elevator, “it’s just one thing after another, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Funny, that.”

  “So, have we reached your recovery point yet?” Hadrian entered the elevator and ordered it to take him to the bridge level.

  “In two point three-five hours,” Tammy replied.

  “Too long! Engage the T drive, dammit.”

  “The Klang—”

  “Will do what? Declare war? Surrender? Have sex? Come on, Tammy, we’re wasting time here. Take us to that system with its trilobite planet. Anyway, what are you looking to find there?”

  “That remains to be seen,” Tammy replied.

  The door opened and Hadrian stepped out, and then halted. “What the? This isn’t the right corridor!”

  Tammy cleared his throat. “Captain, I think—”

  “It should turn left to get to the bridge, not right! But look—” Hadrian approached the bridge. The door iris opened. He walked through. “Hey! Who are all of you?”

  Instead of staid, severe Halley Sin-Dour, seated in the command chair, there was an Amazonian Halley Sin-Dour whose only attire seemed to be black leathe
r straps, making her bulge virtually everywhere. She rose at his question and frowned at him. “Commissar? Is something wrong? Do you need a hug?”

  “Is som—do I need what?”

  “You look troubled, sir,” she said, sidling closer and setting a warm hand against his chest. “Was someone unfriendly?” she asked, searching his eyes. “Have you been offended? Who should we be frowning at, sir? Should it be a fierce frown, or a mild one? Commissar, your expression is wounding me! I want to help! Please—we all do, don’t we, friends?” At that, she turned to the rest of the bridge crew.

  Lieutenant Jocelyn Sticks had swung round her chair. She was now naked from the hips up, and was surrounded in some kind of low-g field that made her breasts bob like balloons. The look in her eyes was beseeching. At comms, Jimmy Eden was horribly disfigured by battle scars that left his once-handsome face mangled and dripping drool. The vacuous grin he turned on Hadrian was the only thing the captain found remotely familiar.

  Seated at the science station, Adjutant Lorrin Tighe had begun moaning with her legs tightly crossed as she stared up at Hadrian. Nearby sat Buck, on the floor, busy grooming an ensign.

  “Good grief! I’ve slipped into a parallel universe! A mirror universe, but a mirror murkily, as the old saying goes. In fact, it’s a Bonoboverse!”

  Tammy spoke, “About that—”

  “Not now, Tammy. I’m sensing an imminent group hug here—no, not you, Eden. This is clearly some kind of alternate version of Terran civilization, one where we’re all cuddly, oversensitive, syrupy, and best of all, we mitigate all conflict with rampant sex. Well, Tammy, if you don’t mind, I’ll stick around here for a while, at least until the shine wears off.”

  Printlip arrived from the corridor behind Hadrian. There was a small puffing sound and something warm and damp touched Hadrian’s neck. He reached up and wiped it off, frowning at his palm. “What was that, Doc?”

  The world shifted. Once more, the old, staid Halley Sin-Dour was standing before him, fully clothed, a quizzical expression on her face. Behind her, Sticks was at the helm station, sadly wearing a uniform. And Jimmy Eden looked like, well, an athlete, although his vacuous smile remained. Lorrin Tighe wasn’t even on the bridge. Nor was Buck.