Revenant Gun

by Yoon Ha Lee

  “So you should be studying,” one of the servitors, the catform, said with red lights for emphasis.

  “Oh, come on,” Mistrikor said, “how many chances am I going to have to talk to the Immolation Fox? Or watch a tribunal with a stranger-servitor from a place so distant no one’s ever heard of it?”

  “You can observe,” the catform said, “if you promise to go back to your room and prepare for the examination after.”

  Mistrikor opened her mouth to protest. Instead, her stomach rumbled loudly. “The sacrifices I make,” she said. “All the fasting. My growth is going to be stunted.”

  While Mistrikor and her keepers squabbled, Hemiola asked one of the other servitors, “What is the protocol for a tribunal?”

  “You’re Nirai, aren’t you?” replied a deltaform. “I can always tell.”

  “Yes,” Hemiola said, and introduced itself, for propriety’s sake.

  “We have a problem,” the deltaform said. “Tefos Enclave has no standing treaty with the Trans-Enclave. I wouldn’t even have thought it possible. But then, I’m only 102 years old and it’s a big galaxy. Are you qualified to negotiate on behalf of Tefos?”

  The question struck Hemiola as absurd. It doubted Sieve or Rhombus would ever make their way out here. Still—“Are there any standard procedures for situations like this?”

  “That depends on what you’re here for,” the deltaform said.

  Hemiola had an opportunity, then. “Information exchange.” It might have access to the hexarch’s records, but it needed to be able to put those in context. The trouble was, what could it offer?

  The ugly truth was, if it wanted to unspool the hexarch’s notes, it would have to surrender—not the notes themselves, necessarily, but what it knew of his routines. Assuming the Trans-Enclave had any interest in that information.

  “All right,” the deltaform said, as if it went through transactions like this every day. “What do you want, and what are you offering?”

  “I want grid access,” Hemiola said, greatly daring. “Nothing classified. Just—the kind of access that an ordinary citizen would have.”

  “That’s easy enough,” the deltaform said, its lights tranquil blue. “We’ll have to update you on local protocol so you don’t foul up the grid. And your offer?”

  “Tefos Enclave periodically hosts Hexarch Nirai Kujen,” Hemiola said, feeling like a traitor. “I don’t know if this is of inter—”

  “Done,” the deltaform said promptly. “Excuse me while I discuss the arrangements with my colleagues.”

  While it waited, Hemiola returned to reviewing the hexarch’s archives. It had skipped forward to a dreary chunk of research on voidmoths because the hexarch had shown an increasing obsession with them. Not the initial harnessing that made mothdrives viable, but an obscure line of research that involved breeding moths for size. It had always known that moths came in various sizes, from the immense cindermoths to the small scoutmoths and needlemoths. It hadn’t, however, realized that this was the result of deliberate tampering.

  Like most servitors, Hemiola, while not an expert on mothdrive technology, was acquainted with the basics. The larger the moth, the faster and more powerful its drive. Scoutmoths had minimal crews and were as small as they could practically be made while being able to keep up with a warmoth swarm. As far as Hemiola knew, the Nirai refused to acknowledge an upper limit on the moths’ size, but the lower limit for a useful scoutmoth was well known. After a certain point, invariant maneuver drives were more effective and less hassle.

  “There you go,” the deltaform said, blinking to recapture Hemiola’s attention. It sent a databurst containing not just the protocols, but what claimed to be a standardized treaty for stranger-servitors from unaffiliated enclaves.

  Hemiola reviewed the treaty, trying not to feel too overwhelmed. It didn’t see anything immediately objectionable. “I agree to this on the behalf of Tefos Enclave,” it said, “subject to future negotiation if necessary.”

  “Of course,” the deltaform said, still in soothing blue. Perhaps unfairly, Hemiola wondered if it ever spoke in anything other than blue.

  “—mediation.”

  Suddenly aware that it had lost track of its surroundings, Hemiola redirected its attention to the catform. Mistrikor was gesturing animatedly at it.

  The catform said to Hemiola, “I apologize for the irregularity of the proceedings.”

  Hemiola refrained from mentioning that it couldn’t tell the difference, given how long it had spent away from mainstream servitor society. “Mediation?”

  Jedao smiled wryly at it. “Since we’re both here and our goals are in conflict, yes.”

  “I won’t help you destroy the hexarch.”

  Jedao didn’t argue this point straight off. Instead, he said, “You must think highly of him.”

  Hemiola wasn’t sure that was the case anymore. As it progressed through the hexarch’s notes, he became more and more absorbed—obsessed, even—with research and personal luxuries. It had tried to tell itself that this didn’t mean anything. But finding traces of the man who had tried to prevent a girl from starving to death grew increasingly difficult. Still, it said, “I know my duty. I thought you did too.”

  Jedao’s smile became more lopsided. “Not many people would say that to me. The hexarch is old, and wise after a fashion; he has also hurt a lot of people. He can’t be allowed to remain in power.”

  “Then let me look for evidence of that,” Hemiola said. “The man who left those notes wanted peace and stability and a world without hunger. How can those be bad things?”

  “Good luck with that one,” the catform said to Jedao.

  Jedao sighed. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Jedao turned back to Hemiola. “I don’t know what happened to that man. But he wasn’t the man I met four hundred years ago, and as for who he is now—” His mouth compressed. “If you have access to the grid now—”

  Hemiola blinked an affirmative.

  “—perhaps I can show you some of the consequences of his decisions, even if he was too secretive to show himself in public.”

  “I’ll take you up on that,” Hemiola said, scarcely believing its own boldness. “First, though, I need to know who Ajewen Cheris is, and why you’re going around with more than one name.” Based on Mistrikor’s reaction, Cheris, like Jedao, was someone with a reputation. With any luck, it would be able to verify the basics with access to Ayong Primary’s grid.

  The discussion had attracted Mistrikor’s attention. “You haven’t heard of Cheris?” she demanded. “At least tell me you know who Jedao is.”

  “Yes,” Hemiola said, a bit stiffly. “Which one are you?” it asked Jedao-Cheris-whoever.

  “Whoever I need to be,” Jedao-Cheris-whoever said. Their eyes were sad. “I used to be one person. I was a Kel. Now I have fragments of a dead man in my head.”

  It tried to parse that. “So you’re really Jedao.”

  “I remember being the man who was Kujen’s companion for centuries,” they said. “And I remember being an ordinary infantry officer. I am who I need to be for the mission. Call me Cheris, if you like. It reminds me why I’m doing this.”

  Mistrikor was practically bouncing on her toes. “I knew it! I knew you hadn’t left everyone behind.”

  “Behind?” Hemiola asked.

  “She broke the calendar,” Mistrikor said. “Nine years ago. It was a big deal. I guess you must have been in a very remote location if it didn’t affect you.”

  All of Hemiola’s lights went dark as it tried to process this idea. This person who was part-Jedao had broken the hexarch’s own calendar? It had gotten far enough into the notes to understand how seriously the hexarch took the idea of constructing a new social order.

  “Let me,” Mistrikor said, leaning forward. She didn’t seem to be intimidated by Cheris in the slightest. “How big was the human population of Tefos?”

  “Usually zero,” Hemiola
said, with perfect honesty. “The hexarch and Jedao”—it faltered, then resumed speaking—“were the only ones who visited, only for a month or so every century.”

  Her eyes went round. “So there weren’t any remembrances?”

  It consulted its memories. “The hexarch liked to practice the New Year’s dances,” it said, carefully omitting mention of Jedao, “although they didn’t visit around the actual New Year. He also liked anything to do with lanterns, for reasons that never became clear to me.”

  Cheris’s face didn’t change, but it could detect the slight change in the heat distribution in her body: anger.

  Mistrikor wasn’t done. “But nothing with Vidona?”

  “He never brought any Vidona with him,” Hemiola said. It had a rudimentary awareness that the Vidona oversaw remembrances. That was all.

  Mistrikor’s breath escaped her in a huff. “Well,” she said, without waiting for anyone’s permission. “I’ve got a lot to tell you about how the system works for ordinary people. Especially the remembrances.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JEDAO WOKE UP in slow, painful stages, as though his muscles were peeling off until only the most essential ones remained. As a result, he didn’t realize that Dhanneth had been trying to spoon soup into him until the major came into focus all at once.

  “Major,” Jedao said. It emerged as a croak.

  “Shh,” Dhanneth said. “Don’t try to speak.”

  He would have liked to ask why he was in a completely unfamiliar but enormous room instead of on a pallet of more reasonable size in Medical. It would have made him feel better if the space had been filled with mysterious, pulsating, life-giving machinery, not that he could tell mysterious, pulsating, life-giving machinery from the other kinds. Instead, curtains of bamboo strips hung at intervals to partition off sections of the room, forming a partial labyrinth. Candlevines glowed faintly from the walls and ceiling.

  Then he remembered the battle.

  “Shit!” Jedao said, and winced involuntarily at the pain. “The battle—”

  “We prevailed, sir,” Dhanneth said. “Please, sir, the soup.”

  More memories. He shoved the blanket down and examined his chest. Either someone had changed him into a new uniform or the old one had prodigious powers of self-repair. Gingerly, he felt for the hole. Nothing. Everything seemed solid. He could even hear his heart pounding.

  Dhanneth tried to feed him again. Jedao flinched back from the spoon. “You saw what I am.” Whatever the hell that was.

  “Yes,” Dhanneth said, with no sign of disgust at dealing with—what had Talaw said?—“an inhuman walking corpse.”

  “How can you be taking this so calmly?” Especially when none of the other Kel had.

  Dhanneth’s breath hissed out between his teeth. “You’re my general, sir.”

  That couldn’t be the whole story. He was theoretically the general of the rest of the Kel, too, after all. But to reassure Dhanneth, whose eyes looked bruised with worry, however reluctant, Jedao drank some broth. It took all his concentration, and he still spilled some of it on his shirt. The shirt absorbed the moisture with eerie and total rapidity. In spite of his initial skepticism, the broth did, in fact, make him feel better.

  Jedao fell asleep afterward, without intending to. The next time he woke, Dhanneth was gone. That made sense: even an aide had to have time to himself. Still, Jedao resolved to ask Dhanneth about the inhuman walking corpse business the next time he saw him.

  He surveyed his surroundings more thoroughly this time. The walls were a soft, uncomplicated white. He stared at a small corner table whose legs were shaped like pillars of cavorting foxes, forever winterbound. Kujen? Kujen’s assistant? Kujen’s personal interior decorator?

  Well. No time to waste. He asked the grid where he was and what was going on. Luckily, someone had troubled to turn his augment back on. The grid replied that they were in parking orbit around Isteia 3 while the hexarch consolidated their gains. It also reminded him, primly, that today was the Feast of Burning Veins.

  “That sounds pleasant,” Jedao muttered. The date it gave indicated that four days had elapsed since they’d attacked Isteia. Which meant his attempt to save the mothyard had probably been futile.

  He used the water closet, then stripped off his shirt and searched for evidence of the injuries. Nothing, just the scars he’d woken up with that first day. Kujen had implied that scars were trivial to remove or hide, so that wasn’t conclusive. He replaced the shirt and made sure he was presentable.

  Then the name of the remembrance penetrated. Feast of Burning Veins. “Just what does this remembrance entail?” Jedao asked the grid.

  The grid reassured him that it wasn’t too late to observe the remembrance, which it managed to do while hinting that he ought to strive to do better. Then it launched into a recitation of the chant he was supposed to meditate on and the particular numbers that were significant to this feast.

  “No,” Jedao said, starting to be pissed off, “I don’t mean what I’m supposed to do.” Which, fucked if he was going to do it, but no need to tell the grid that. “What gives the remembrance its name?”

  The grid explained to him that an authorized Vidona official rendered a chosen heretic by, essentially, setting their blood on fire. It started going into the technical details. Jedao wasn’t a medic, but he didn’t miss the fact that no mention was made of, say, anesthesia. The victim had to be conscious for this.

  The grid never used the word “victim” at all. Jedao wondered how many euphemisms deep this went.

  He had a moment to make the decision. It was tempting to ask where the hell Kujen was while this went on, but he didn’t want to inadvertently attract Kujen’s attention. So instead he merely asked the grid one more question: “If I want to attend in person”—he was gambling that this wasn’t the oddest request a stray general had ever made—“where would I go?”

  Obligingly, the grid provided a map. Jedao had the uncanny feeling that it approved. That, or whoever had programmed it wanted to encourage observance of remembrances.

  Four guards stood outside the door. The one in charge was a stolid corporal who had not, strictly speaking, shaved as well as he should have. Jedao opted not to dress him down about the matter, especially since the corporal looked like he’d piss himself if Jedao raised his voice.

  “Sir,” the corporal said waveringly, “you can’t be recovered yet.”

  That wasn’t an outright You can’t leave, so he was ahead. “I wish to attend the remembrance ceremony.”

  The corporal’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened, then closed. If not for Jedao’s certainty that someone was being burned alive right now, the effect would have been funny. Jedao guessed that he had chanced on the one request that the corporal couldn’t turn down.

  “I suppose that’s all right, sir,” the corporal said. “We’ll escort you.”

  “Of course,” Jedao said. Don’t smile.

  “You’ll want to be in full formal, sir,” the corporal said, even more waveringly.

  If he’d still been at Shuos Academy, Jedao would have cracked a joke to lighten the mood. He didn’t think that would help here. He merely nodded and set his uniform to full formal. “Ready,” he said.

  The first surprise, once they exited not-Medical, was the view. Someone had set up the hallway so the walls imaged what he guessed was Isteia 3 and its moons. He couldn’t help slowing to gawk at it, his first good view of a planet with its marbled swirls of cloud and ocean and dark land masses. Clusters of lights shone faintly from the moons, which must be cities.

  Even more impressive, and not in a good way, were the ruins of a station: Isteia Mothyard. Jedao knew from the intel reports what it had once looked like, an immense cylinder sporting numerous blisters for the young voidmoth hatcheries. His people had reduced it to a shatter-scatter of metal fragments and scorched shards. He had the awful suspicion that whoever had decided to image this particular spectacle had done so the way y
ou might put up a trophy.

  Did anyone survive? he asked.

  The Revenant didn’t answer. Nor did anyone else. He could only assume that any mothlings had perished in the carnage. For the first time, he wondered if any of them would have been old enough to talk to him. Not that he would have blamed them for declining.

  It didn’t take them long to reach the remembrance hall. He’d never given it much thought back when Kujen had first presented him with the Revenant’s blueprints. Of all the things to forget.

  Even if he’d forgotten, he should have asked earlier.

  “I’ve never been here before,” Jedao said to his escort.

  The corporal coughed, cleared his throat. “It’s only expanded for use when we’re docked.”

  Yes, of course. He remembered the relevant section of the Kel code of conduct now. Personnel on warmoths in transit were exempt, not least because the fussy local calibrations were too much of a pain in the ass. And possibly also because carting around heretics to torture was, as the code said, logistically inconvenient. He wondered now how many euphemisms were hidden in the code.

  The remembrance hall had several doors, each marked with the Vidona stingray in bronze against metallic green. Even from the other side of the doors, he could smell the incense. The sandalwood blend should have been soothing. Instead, Jedao thought of what the grid had told him. Setting their blood on fire.

  For once, heads didn’t turn as he entered the remembrance hall. The Kel within were in full formal, seconded officers in their factions’ equivalent. Everyone’s attention was intent on the Vidona official and her victim.

  The “heretic” was laid out on a dais. It was a Kel soldier. One of Inesser’s soldiers, to be specific. The black-and-gold uniform was almost the same, but had, in addition, an armband with a golden kestrel stooping to catch its prey. By some miracle, the fires did not blot out the kestrel; instead, they made it shine more brightly. It was, by some measure, the brightest thing in the hall.

  Inside, the everywhere incense was not quite strong enough to drown out the distinctive reek of roasted flesh and what must be the particular smell of burnt fabric.