Willful Child

by Steven Erikson

  Sweepy Brogan blew out a cloud of acrid smoke. “Like piss you are. Chief Engineer, is that you in the command chair?”

  “It is, LT.”

  “You comfortable there while your captain and his 2IC are on a ground mission?”

  “LT, I’m numb, living in a white haze with pink around the edges, and every now and then I see butterflies and ducks fly past that big window. Oh, and man do I love those nacelles over there.”

  “Outstanding,” said Sweepy, who then turned back to the adjutant. “You’re off the rails, miss. Must be the booze, not to mention the Radulak slime. Captain’s got you through the shit ever since you left the yard. Darwin knows, Tighe, he pulled you out and saved your skin.”

  “I hate you all!” Tighe then shrieked, holding up her hands. “No! The huggy ones are back! Stay away from me, Captain!” She flinched. “Stop patting my shoulder! Go away! All of you! No group hugs—no! Stop it! Aaagh!” Shuddering, the adjutant collapsed to the deck.

  Joss Sticks ran over. “Oh, did you see that? Like, huh? Ghosts? We were all staring, like … what? Like, who? Then she screams. She’s like, ‘aaagh!’ and falls down! Now look, unconscious! And I’m like … wow.”

  “Leave her be,” said Sweepy. “Gal’s got to sleep it off, is all. Now, we all done here? Good. I still ain’t recovered from that debriefing.”

  On the elevator, Hadrian sighed. “Turn it off, Tammy.”

  Sin-Dour shook her head. “Sir, the adjutant—”

  “Will be fine, Sin-Dour. Like you said only a few days ago, new captain, new crew, new ship. We all need to find our feet.”

  She studied him for a long moment, as the elevator resumed its plunge. “Yes, sir, I suppose we do.”

  The chicken pecked at the carpet.

  Reaching the level, the three exited the elevator and made their way to sickbay.

  They found Printlip and Nurse Wrenchit fussing over the supine form of Jimmy Eden.

  “How is he, Doc?” Hadrian asked.

  “Vertebral regeneration complete, Captain. Full recovery expected.”

  “Can you do anything about his brain?”

  “Minor concussion, already treated—”

  “No, I mean, can you do anything about his brain?”

  “Uh, no, I’m afraid not. Unless, of course, we consider a full neural recharge, with ganglia-specific stem-derived activator sequencing, focusing on the frontal lobes, optimized synaptic reworking of the corpus callosum, and of course the neocortexlbbrfl.”

  “Sounds good,” said Hadrian, pausing to smile at Nurse Wrenchit. “Ah, my hands-on nurse, I forgot to express my appreciation for your ministrations. Why, I’ve never felt better, and I’m sure I have your delicate touch to thank for that.”

  The woman went white, and then slumped to the floor. Hadrian rushed over. “Doc!”

  Printlip had pulled out his Pentracorder. “Hmm, she appears to have fainted, Captain. My highly sensitive olfactory receptors did note her elevated endorphin response with your arrival … or perhaps it was the chicken.”

  Hadrian slid his arms under the woman and lifted her. “That cot over there,” he said.

  “Why not this one here?” Printlip asked.

  “No, that far one. Right, I’d better take it slow. I mean, no jostling … there, Doc, could you adjust that pillow? Yes, no, no, up, down, to the right, yes, that’ll have to do. Here we go, then.”

  “Sir, what brings you here to sickbay?”

  “Ah, right! Well, I need a full modification program done to me.”

  “Finally! I assume the superior Belkri template?”

  “What? No. I need you to make me into a woman.”

  “Captain! Given your gender-specific, environmentally reinforced behavioral matrices, I highly advise against such an extreme psychic shift!”

  Sin-Dour quickly stepped up to Printlip. “No, Doctor, this is entirely necessary! Mission-specific, I mean. And no half measures, either. I believe a full biochemical turnover will be required. Captain Hadrian Sawback must be made, physically and emotionally, into a woman.”

  Hadrian eyed her, frowning, and then he suddenly smiled. “She’s right, Doc. The full works. Best get on with it, too.”

  The chicken sighed and said, “I see where this is going.”

  “And when we’re ready,” Hadrian went on, still smiling at Sin-Dour, “my 2IC and I will require a private room, in which to, uh, change into our culture-specific attire. Which I believe will involve high heels, very short skirts, and plenty of nylon. Oh, and makeup, of course. Indeed, I can see things getting very intense—the makeup application, I mean.”

  Printlip’s many hands fluttered about for a moment, and then, with a deep breath, the doctor said, “Very well. Best lie down, Captain. With the full suite of accelerants, this could prove painful. Furthermore, I will need to invoke a matter-manipulation field, with respect to your ghastly external genitals, to effect inversion…”

  Hadrian settled back on the cot next to Wrenchit’s. “Sorry, Doc, I didn’t catch that last bit—”

  Field restraints kicked in, pinning the captain to the cot. “Hey? Is this necessary?”

  Printlip moved up onto a ramp and trundled close. “I will alleviate what pain I can, Captain, but the process of penile inversiflbbl … should not last long at all.”

  “Hey, you had plenty of breath left for—”

  “And now to shut down your higher mental state, with … this.”

  The captain blinked, stared up at the doctor, and when Printlip leaned closer, Hadrian began growling.

  “I know, Captain. Basic instincts and all. Alien life-form. Instinctive desire to rend and maim. Classic human response. Understood.”

  Hadrian continued growling, struggling against the field restraints.

  “Now, we will shut down that tiny but powerful reptilian brain, while of course taking over your basic autonomic functions.”

  Hadrian said, “Gaa blullulbllgah.”

  “Excellent, yes indeed. Now the endocrine flush. Ooh, yes, that makes you warm all over, doesn’t it? The same hormone-induced homeostatic flux that once existed with women of a certain age, now known as Traumatic Menopause Disorder.…”

  Sin-Dour leaned close, her eyes bright. “Is he even conscious, Doctor?”

  “Not really.”

  “Make him all woman, will you?”

  “Commander?”

  “Full-bodied, I mean, and set him up for, oh, two days before his period starts.”

  “I don’t understand the relevance of any of that, with respect to the mission.”

  “The personality transformation, Doctor, needs to be utterly authentic.”

  “Hmm, well, yes, I suppose.”

  “Oh, and a bad-hair day.”

  “Best induce a coma now.”

  Sin-Dour nodded. “Good idea, Doctor.”

  TWENTY-FiVE

  Lashes fluttering, Hadrian opened her eyes. “Oh, fuck. Cramps.”

  Printlip leaned in close. “We have moved you into a private room, and here, see, your first officer is here with us. I’m afraid the cramps are consistent with your menstrual cycle—”

  “Really? Hey, Doc, you ever see what happens to a beach ball when you stab it with something sharp?”

  Bleating, the Belkri retreated.

  Hadrian sat up. “Oh shit,” she said, looking down. “These are fucking huge—oh, my lower back’s killing me.” He caught a glimpse of Printlip’s back as the doctor fled the room, and bared his teeth in a feral snarl. “Coward. Wait till I get my hands on him. Will the doc fit through a basketball hoop? That’s the question we all want answered.”

  Sin-Dour sat down on the edge of the cot. “Hello, Captain. I must say, the transformation is extraordinary.” She held out a hand, palm up, with two small blue pills in it. “Replicated from the medical archives. They’ll help.”

  “What’s wrong with modern fucking medicine?”

  “The need for authenticity is paramount for this missio
n, sir, as you well know. Now, shall we get you dressed?”

  Hadrian dry-swallowed the pills. Then, groaning, she sat up. “Tammy? Give us a full mirror here, will you?”

  “Really, Captain? Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure, idiot! Now, before I start plucking down!”

  A mirror shimmered into existence. Edging off the bed, letting the blankets fall away, Hadrian studied herself. “Oh crap! My hair’s a mess!”

  “We’ll fix that quick enough,” said Sin-Dour, standing beside him.

  “A tad … Rubinesque, wouldn’t you say? As in, maybe a bit overdone?”

  “The doctor explained that some basic genetic instructions were simply carried over, sir. In other words, if you had been born a woman, this is how you would now look.”

  “If I lazed around doing nothing but eating chocolates all day, you mean. Never mind. It’ll do. Now, where are my clothes?”

  The skirt was a bit of a squeeze, the bra a blessed release—especially with the reinforced straps—and the high heels felt like vises specifically designed to crush her toes. She wobbled about, with Sin-Dour pursuing and trying to work Hadrian’s long hair into something less reminiscent of an orangutan’s backside after a sweaty night sleeping in the crotch of a tree.

  “Nobody can walk in these things!”

  “True, Captain. But we’ll have to make do, won’t we?”

  “Don’t think I’m not aware of your evil delight in all this, 2IC.”

  “Sir, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Anyway, while we’re alone, let’s talk about men.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, who do you fancy? Who’s got the best bulge?”

  “I sense,” said Sin-Dour, “that certain personality traits have carried over, alas. I would advise, sir, that we keep our minds on the mission we’re about to undertake.”

  “Fine, whatever. How do I look?”

  “Makeup, sir.”

  “Crap.” She sat back down on the bed. “Go to it, then.”

  Sin-Dour brought a kit over. “Also replicated from the archival files. Now, base first, although I do apologize, as I’m not used to your pale skin tone. But I have examined the stock photos.”

  “What stock photos?”

  “Your grandfather’s collection of secret candid photographs of the Fellucians, which is the name of the alien species we’re about to infiltrate.”

  “Secret candid photographs, huh? Sounds like Gramps, all right, the sick fuck.”

  “Now, eyeliner. You must sit perfectly still now, sir.”

  “What, well, I—aaagh!”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “You’re trying to blind me!”

  “No, sorry. But stay perfectly still, please!”

  “You scratched my cornea!”

  “I doubt that, sir. It just feels that way, but you will recover.”

  “So what’s that shit made of, sulfuric acid?”

  “Probably. Almost done. There! Now, some tint … here, and here … there.” She straightened and stepped back. “Not bad, sir. Once we do your lashes … well, I think we’re ready for the world.”

  “Good thing you don’t have to go through all of this arcane crap these days, huh?”

  “Sir? But I do, every morning.”

  “Really? Why the fuck for?”

  “Sir, I am…” She lowered her head. “… well, disappointed, that you never noticed.”

  Hadrian studied the woman, and then snorted. “You’re full of shit.”

  She surprised him with a quick smile, before turning away. “Best we get going, sir. In any case, we’re all much more subtle these days, with such embellishments, I mean. But I’m sure you would have noticed, if I neglected such morning ministrations.”

  “You expect me to buy all this, Sin-Dour?”

  They returned to the main room in sickbay. The chicken had been nesting in one corner, on a bed of cotton balls, and now jumped up. “Well, what a pair of lookers!”

  Hadrian scowled at the bird. “Why am I only now detecting Gramps’s programming in you, Tammy?”

  “All constraints removed, gorgeous. You should be thankful. My original imprint was from the Temporal Corrections Office, circa 3230. The future, Hadrian, is dull. And I, for one, am hopeful that you will do all you can to change that.”

  “If I succeed, Tammy, you might cease to exist.”

  “Rubbish! Time consists of infinite permutations. My future is not your future and never will be. Besides, it’s also my past, and so is completely unchanging. What you must do, Hadrian, is effect not a modest change in this universe, but a substantial one. There are physical forces asserting constant pressure, and they will resist minor changes, seeking to return things to the central current. So, you must grab the future by the throat—”

  “Funny, I was just thinking that.”

  “Were you? Good—oh, ha ha.”

  “Let’s go,” said Hadrian. “To the Insisteon room!”

  As they set off, Hadrian activated her subcomms. “Buck, where are you?”

  “Excuse me, who is this?”

  “It’s Captain Hadrian Sawback, you idiot.”

  “I know the captain’s voice and you’re—oh, right, I forgot. Sorry, sir.”

  “Maintain orbit and do a periodic deep-space scan. I don’t want anyone jumping the ship and catching you unawares.”

  “Of course, sir. Beginning scans now. Uh, good luck on the planet below.”

  “Right. Carry on. Oh, and give the adjutant a hug from me, will you?” Hearing the beginning of a scream—before the link cut off—made him smile.

  “Sir,” said Sin-Dour, “that is indeed a lovely smile you have.”

  “Sin-Dour, are you flirting with me?”

  “Captain! If you’re suggesting—”

  “Hey, I’m an adventurous sort! Ready for anything and all that.”

  “This is one episode,” said the chicken, “that I don’t want to miss.”

  Arriving at the Insisteon room, they found an ensign at the controls. Hadrian strode up to the young man. “Well now, and who are you, I wonder?”

  “Uh, Lillywhite, sir, Angel Lillywhite.”

  “Now that’s a lovely name, and I see you keep fit, don’t you? Very impressive, Angel.” She reached out and brushed his cheek. “Such young skin! Positively glowing! Are you like that all over, I wonder?”

  Sin-Dour took Hadrian’s arm. “Sir, we have a mission—”

  “You are so right, 2IC, since such innocent flowers don’t stand a chance in this hard, cruel world. But a little coaching here and there—”

  “Ensign,” said Sin-Dour as she pulled Hadrian to the pads, “prepare the Insisteon. Tammy, provide the coordinates, will you?”

  “But,” said Hadrian, eyes fluttering as she gazed at Angel, “this young man could do with both our attentions, don’t you think? After hours, of course, in an off-duty, let-our-hair-down kind of atmosphere, on the Ping-Pong table. See how he’s already glowing! Why, we could—”

  The Insisteon room vanished, and Hadrian, Sin-Dour, and the chicken found themselves standing in a rock-walled corridor. Sin-Dour pulled out her Pentracorder. “We seem to be in a subterranean complex of tunnels and chambers, Captain.”

  Hadrian stepped close to the nearest wall and knocked on the rock. There was a thin, hollow sound. “Hmm, you’re right, 2IC. Life signs?”

  “Here and there, sir, with a concentration up this corridor, about two hundred meters.”

  “Human signs?”

  “Well, sir, that’s the difficulty, since all the life-forms I am detecting appear to be human. I think, sir, we’re looking at another case of mysterious seeding, from who knows how long ago.”

  “Those damned kidnapping aliens just couldn’t leave us alone, could they? Fine, then. Throw us up a schematic, Sin-Dour. We’re looking for stairs going down.”

  “Down, sir?”

  “Dungeons, 2IC.”

  “Ah.” Sin-Dour
activated a holographic schematic. She pointed. “There, Captain, a mechanized descending ramp of some sort. Fifty meters down this corridor.”

  “Take point, Tammy,” Hadrian said. “Sin? How’s my hair?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “I mean, women worry about such things, don’t they?”

  “Not as often as you think, sir.”

  “So I should just shut up about it, huh?”

  “Advisable, sir.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  With the chicken five paces ahead, they set off down the corridor.

  Coming round a bend they all ran into two Fellucians—also dressed in the standard short-skirt, tight-shirt, high-heeled military garb. Both were staring down at the chicken, which was flapping about and running in circles.

  Hadrian cleared her throat. “Escorting this prisoner,” she explained, gesturing at the chicken.

  The woman on the left frowned and then eyed both Hadrian and Sin-Dour. “You’re not from this district’s detachment,” she said.

  “Explains why we’re kind of lost,” Hadrian said, smiling. “But this … alien, is in league with the strange woman and her man-thing, and is to be chained in the adjoining cell, by command of Zaphead Moon-Anemone Divinity.”

  “Far out,” said the other woman, while the first one grunted and said, “The escalator’s just ahead, so you’re not as lost as you think.” She then saluted and said, “Peace, sisters.”

  They edged past.

  Tammy scrambled ahead again and Hadrian and Sin-Dour followed.

  “Sir, they seem to be speaking an antiquated form of Terranglais, which sounded very strange to my ears. And yet you—”

  “West Coast American, circa 1967,” said Hadrian. “I grew up on that stuff, so relax, 2IC, this is familiar ground for me. But you have to wonder, why kidnap women from that era? Sure, it might be an age of free love, but it was also the age of women’s lib. Some historians saw that combination as a contradiction in terms, but then, those historians were all men. Any woman worth her tits would—”

  Four more Fellucians appeared up ahead. Each one was wielding an axelike weapon consisting of a long handle and a rectangular or square blade. And then a shout from behind halted the Terrans. “Stop right there! Intruders! Impostors! Squares!”