Willful Child

by Steven Erikson

  Printlip joined them, a few hands still dusting itself down. “I did try to warn you, Captain. She needs a detox misting … again. But there are complications.”

  Hadrian squinted at the Belkri. “Go on.”

  “Long-term immersion in Radulak slime, Captain, has resulted in permanent psychological dysfunctions, particularly in the neocorteffbl.”

  Tighe leaned onto the bed, bottle swishing. She leered at Hadrian. “What it’s sayin’, Kaptin, is I got bad thoughts, right? And I’m seein’ things. And hearin’ things. ’Sworse when I’m sober. ’Sworse.” She reeled back to take a drink, and fell onto the bed, across Hadrian’s shins. “Mmm, lumpy.”

  Hadrian frowned down at her. “Half a detox at least, Doc?”

  “A difficult balance to achieve, Captain, while she continues to replicate, and then imbibe, more alcohol.”

  “Make it an implant?”

  “Ah, yes, a maintenance program in a subdural ’bot. Excellent solution, sir.”

  Tighe was staring up at the ceiling, cradling her bottle. “I’m useless. All that trainin’. All those nights with the admiral—”

  “Adjutant!”

  She tilted her head to eye him. “Y’barkin’ at me, Kaptin? Fuggoff.”

  Hadrian worked his legs free. He saw that Tammy had replaced the clothes folded on the chair. Back to the lime green shirt with the gold piping. Black stretchy slacks and high-topped boots. He worked the shirt on. “Best keep her here, Doc, until you’ve got that implant in her. When that’s done, send her back up to the bridge.”

  “Advisable, sir? She will continue to be half inebriated.”

  “We’ll adjust.” Hadrian pulled on the slacks. “Socks? Where’s my—ah, there. Good.”

  Leaving Tighe still lying crossways on the bed, with Printlip fussing over something at its desk, Hadrian made his way to the nearest elevator.

  Out in the corridor, Tammy spoke, “Your officers are crumbling in your wake, Captain. Buck’s dosage of, well, everything, is off the charts. Your adjutant is in a slime-induced self-pitying funk—not all of it unwarranted. Your comms officers—both of them—are either dyspeptically neurotic or exhibiting varying degrees of post-traumatic stress disorder. As for Helm Jocelyn Sticks, well, she continues to be an absolute airhead.”

  “I still have Galk,” Hadrian said as he entered the elevator.

  “If you thought the screens on the Radulak ship were disgusting, you haven’t paid a visit to the combat cupola. I have displaced more spittoons into that cubbyhole than I can count, and he uses none of them. As for the porn magazines, well—”

  “He’s Varekan, Tammy. It’s the long-distance trucker in his genes, that’s all. No, I have full confidence in my combat specialist.”

  “Then you’re as insane as the rest of them! Your man with the finger on the trigger has an incurable death wish—do you think that’s a good idea, Captain?”

  “It’s not a ‘wish’ as such, Tammy. It’s more like a ‘death-I-don’t-care’ thingy. And that makes him fearless and cool under pressure. No, I consider Galk to be an astounding success.”

  He returned to the bridge to find the chicken seated in the command chair.

  “Tammy!”

  The chicken turned to eye him. “Yes?”

  “Get rid of this!”

  “No,” the chicken replied, “I kind of like it.” It stood on the chair and then flapped down to the floor. “But now, as you are once again in command, I humbly yield—ooh, look, some lint!” The chicken scrambled toward it.

  Hadrian eyed the officers. Sin-Dour was at the science station, and she turned in time to meet his eyes.

  “Captain,” she said, as expressionless as ever, “it’s good to see that you have recovered.”

  “Right. Good as new. Uh, status update?”

  “The chicken wouldn’t budge from the command chair, sir.”

  “And now it’s pecking lint from the carpet, yes, yes, never mind that. ETA?”

  “Well, I convinced Tammy to permit us dropping out of T space at six-hour intervals. We are in our second rest period, navigating through an asteroid belt orbiting a burned-out star. But sir, there are some strange readings from behind our ship.”

  “Strange?” Hadrian went to his command chair, plucked away a few feathers, and then sat. “In what way?”

  The chicken looked up and tilted its head as it muttered, “I feel another episode coming on.”

  “Well, sir,” said Sin-Dour, studying her screens, “we are being followed by a small vessel, of indeterminate configuration. The propulsion system is very peculiar, as I am detecting trace elements of sulfur and methane.”

  “Rear view on main screen,” Hadrian commanded.

  The image shifted.

  “I don’t see it, 2IC. Distance?”

  “Three point two-one meters, sir.”

  “What? Is it cloaked?”

  “No, sir, but it appears to be surrounded by an organic cloud—well, uh, that would be our bilge dump, which of course is presently matching our heading velocity, at least until we change vectors.”

  “I see,” murmured Hadrian. “You know, I never thought of it before. There must be tens of thousands of shit piles flying every which way through the galaxy. Anyway. What you’re saying is, there is a tiny ship hiding in our bilge dump.”

  “It’s emerging now. Mass, eighteen ounces.”

  “Magnification—let’s get a visual.”

  The image blurred, corrected, found focus. Hadrian slowly leaned forward. “Sin-Dour, are you sure that’s the vessel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But that’s a turd. Granted, a big one, but then I’ve seen bigger.”

  “Uh, sir,” said Sin-Dour. “That turd is equipped with antimatter engines, an array of surface sensors, weapon mounts, and what appear to be porthole windows.”

  “Wow,” said Jimmy Eden from his position at comms, “what did that guy eat to make all that?”

  Sin-Dour moved up to stand beside Hadrian. “Captain, my preliminary analysis is complete. We are about to make first contact with a new spacefaring alien species. The inhabitants of that vessel are, according to my scans, tiny hive-sentient insectile entities, spontaneously evolved into a higher life-form probably due to constant radiation bombardment. Sir, they have begun transmitting on primitive radio frequencies.”

  “Brilliant!” said Hadrian. “Discover new, strange, and utterly disgusting life-forms! What’s wrong with a civilization of tall, statuesque women who’ve never experienced the attentions of a real man? Dressed like, I don’t know, hotel maids, but with skimpy short skirts and high-heeled boots, and those hairdos where it’s all piled up like a melting wedding cake? I want too much eye shadow and cake powder, false eyelashes and soft focus! But no! What do I get? Why, I get to shake hands with a piece of shit!”

  Eden gasped. “Captain! We have a translated communication from the Turdians!”

  Hadrian spun round. “Turdians? I like it. What are they saying, Jimmy?”

  “They want to speak with God, sir.”

  “Hmm. Acknowledge and put them on hold, Jimmy.” Hadrian stood. “Fine, then. First contact, and one that’s starting on the right foot, though that foot might need a roadside curb once we’re done. Lo and behold, I shall be their god! Tammy, project a hologram for them. Something that should be impressive to a bug that lives in shit. Oh, and when you translate my commands, make sure I sound properly impressive.”

  The chicken advanced on him. “I refuse! There’s only one god here, and it’s me!”

  “You? Fine, then, we’ll do the special effects stuff. Sin-Dour, mock up a proper godlike image to do the talking for Tammy.”

  She looked blankly at him. “I’m sorry, sir, but nothing comes to mind.”

  “Right then, let’s think—”

  “I see no problem,” said Tammy, hopping up onto the command chair, “with my appearing as this chicken.”

  “Chickens eat insects,” Hadrian pointed o
ut. “You’ll give them a hive heart attack. No, what I’m thinking is a giant multisegmented turd—a real groaner—with a couple legs, a couple arms, and big glowing eyes. Just say hello, drop a few tablets with Affiliation-friendly commandments on them, and warn them not to look behind the curtain. Oh, and give yourself a name, too. Something like, Seriously High Turdster.”

  “I have changed my mind,” said the chicken, scrambling down from the chair. “This one’s all yours, O God Hadrian Turdster.”

  “Bailing on us, Tammy? How come?”

  “Conscience, Captain, a quality of which you seem entirely incapable of comprehending, much less exhibiting.”

  Hadrian snorted, resuming his seat. “You’re wrong, Tammy. This is standard Affiliation procedure with first-contact events. We awe them first, screw them over later.”

  “It hardly seems fair.”

  “Besides, we’re already building their worlds, aren’t we? Dump by dump. But I’m wondering—Sin-Dour, these little shits already have space travel. Any idea how long they’ve been climbing up technology’s ladder?”

  “Normal rates of progress, sir, suggest thousands of years, although advancement is usually characterized by long periods of stasis interrupted by rapid acceleration, until the next period of stasis, and so on. But my sense of these, uh, Turdians, is that advancements developed much more quickly. We could be talking a period of days or even hours.”

  “Now,” said Hadrian, “that’s a disturb—”

  “Captain!”

  “Jim—oh, Polaski. What is it?”

  “They hung up on us, sir. I think we put them on hold for too long. Oh, wait, a new communication…”

  “And?”

  “Uhm, they’re saying, uh, something like, ‘We command the universe now. You pathetic Terrans with your pathetic galactic hegemony must now kneel before us, or risk utter annihilation. You have two microseconds to reply.’”

  Sin-Dour grunted and then said, “Captain, their ship has disappeared. The species has … oh, it has left corporeal reality, ascending into a higher state of existence. Wait a moment, I’m scanning … sir, the bilge is just a pile of, uh, feces again. They’re gone.”

  “Well, that was fun.” Hadrian stood. “At least they didn’t annihilate us. Log the incident, 2IC, hah hah, and let’s drop back into T space and resume our journey to the Known Rim.”

  “As far as episodes go,” said Tammy, “that one was a stinker.”

  “Almost as redolent as your effort at humor, Tammy.”

  “Humor? Oh, I see. Toilet humor, ha ha ha. I meant to say just that, of course, since as we know, intelligence and wit are intricately bound. I voiced a pun, but I noted that no one laughed, thus proving the assertion that intelligence is linked with—”

  “Ever heard of beating a dead horse, Tammy?”

  “No, why would I do that? If it’s already dead? Besides, I wouldn’t beat a living horse, either. In fact, the whole sentiment underlying that adage is highly suspect on ethical grounds. Ooh look, a sliver of fingernail!”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “T packet from Space Fleet, Captain.”

  “Wow, the FedEx account must be redlining. Send it through to my office, Polaski.”

  Once in his office, Hadrian sat down and opened the file. He well knew the man on the screen, and sighed upon seeing the evil smile greeting him.

  “That’s right, Sawback. With the loss of Admiral Prim, it’s Admiral Tang Prickle delivering to you the following orders. First off, thank you for congratulating me on the promotion. But sucking up won’t help you one bit, so shut up and listen. Good news: The kill-on-sight order on you and the Willful Child has been rescinded. Bad news: The suspension of that order is temporary. Bad for you, that is. Now, pay attention.

  “The AFS science vessel Piece of Cake is missing. The Varekan-crewed ship was conducting a reconnaissance of the Known Rim, Sector Nineteen, when contact was lost during an encounter with an unknown doughnut-shaped alien vessel. As it turns out, by your last communication, you are on a course to Sector Nineteen and the Known Rim. What a happy coincidence. I am appending the last known coordinates of the Piece of Cake.”

  Tang leaned forward on his desk. “Last communication was garbled. The vessel was under attack. Something about an impending galactic invasion by an overwhelming force. Now, you’d think with news like that, we’d be sending you help, but it seems we’re in a bit of a shoot-up argument with the Misanthari, who have been clocked as Code White Minus Point One, by the way, and all of our ships are otherwise engaged. Nice mess you’ve left us there, Sawback. Students at the Academy back on Earth burned you in effigy yesterday, as a kind of send-off for my leaving. Touching, to be honest. I’ll miss the place.

  “So. You are hereby ordered to determine the nature of this galactic invasion. Rescue whoever you can if the Piece of Cake hasn’t been blasted to smithereens. Recover what wreckage there might be, for weapon-signature analysis, and if you get yourself blown up, well, too bad. Tang out.”

  Hadrian closed the file. The door to his office opened and the chicken entered, jumping in a flap of wings to the desktop. “Ball bearings! Can I eat those?”

  “Oh please,” said Hadrian, “help yourself.”

  “Hmm, might get lodged in my scrawny neck. Better not. So, trouble on the horizon. I might have guessed. It follows you around like, like, well, bilge dump.”

  “You were listening in.”

  “Of course,” Tammy replied. “So who is this Tang guy to you?”

  “My old drill sergeant.”

  “Some promotion!”

  Hadrian scowled. “He’d been busted down from admiral a few years back. The Fishbin Incident. Check your files on that one.”

  “Ooh, I see. The man is certifiable—why didn’t they throw him out?”

  “Connections high up at AFC … the usual.” Hadrian stood. “Prime all the weapons, Tammy. And this time, max out the energy output on every beam. No exchanging broadsides for fun, got it? We’re going in with the intent to do grievous harm. Shoot first ask questions later. Understood?”

  “No. If you shoot first you destroy everything. How can you then ask questions?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Captain, you do understand that this unknown alien aggressor may well be my kin?”

  “It’s occurred to me.”

  “And still you want to destroy them!”

  “More than ever, actually.” Hadrian suddenly reached out and grabbed the chicken by its neck. He held it up.

  “Let me go!”

  “My family on my mother’s side were old-style farmers. They used to wring the necks of chickens for fun, since it can get boring out in the flatlands of Iowa. Anyway, I’m trying to remember how it’s done. Twist hard and then a sharp downward snapping motion, I believe.”

  “Don’t you dare! I’ll just manifest another one. A bigger chicken! Try wringing the neck of a chicken that’s looking down at you, Captain! I’ll peck your eyes out!”

  “You already did that to Buck, as I recall. Well, tried to.”

  “Fine, so I have issues with your chief engineer. I was only having fun. He spilled everything, you know, including his hot affair with his tenth-grade English teacher, and the shotgun wedding he skipped out on after he’d gotten her pregnant.”

  Hadrian set the bird back down on the desktop and sat. “Wow, really? Tell me more.”

  “That family’s still hunting him. There’s even rumors of an illegal bounty, with no time limit. Haven’t you wondered why a man with claustrophobia elected to sign on for space travel?”

  “Why yes, I have wondered. Well, that’s how the past is for most of us, Tammy. A jumbled collection of sordid stupidities, hopeless longings, and hapless regrets. Poor Buck. I mean, he had a hot older woman in his pocket at what, sixteen? Should’ve jumped on board for the long haul, even with a few babies in tow. He’d be a happier man right now.”

  The chicken was trying out its neck, gingerly stretching in vari
ous directions, and then it cocked its head. “Your response to things continues to baffle me, Captain. There’s that old human saying, about men with two brains—the big one in their skull and the smaller one in their penises, and it’s the smaller one that does most of the thinking—”

  “Change the subject, will you? My little brain’s just had a lobotomy.” Hadrian stood again. “Well, what a fascinating little exchange this was, and you’ve left droppings on my desk. Be sure to clean that up before you leave.”

  Hadrian returned to the bridge, and his command chair. “Pol—oh, you, Eden. Open shipwide comms. I have a statement to make.”

  “Ready, sir.”

  “Attention crew. We will soon be arriving at the Known Rim, where it is likely we will find ourselves engaged in a hopeless battle against impossible odds, facing an implacable foe intent on destroying not just the Affiliation, but all other sentient life-forms in the galaxy. In other words, just another day in the adventures of Captain Hadrian Sawback and the crew of the Willful Child.

  “My advice to everyone is, get used to it. Events like this could well become a weekly affair. We’ll face death. We’ll clash with terrible forces and belligerent enemies. We’ll uncover mysteries and probably get seriously grossed out in the process. But one thing must be understood, and have no doubt about this: No one dies on this ship! Well, bearing in mind my warning about kitten pictures.

  “In a short while, we will be at battle stations. Do what you’ve been trained to do. And if we all blow up anyways, well, that’s just how it is. Sometimes, my friends, space just sucks. Captain out.”

  There was silence on the bridge, apart from an irritating beeping sound that, Hadrian realized, never went away. He looked around. “For crying out loud, where’s that damned beeping coming from?”

  He saw nothing but blank looks from his officers. Sin-Dour went to the science station, examined her screens, and then faced Hadrian. “Unknown, sir.”

  “Tammy?”

  The chicken emerged from the office. “Don’t look at me. No, really, all of you, stop looking at me!”