by Tim Wirkus
She couldn’t look Aylesbury in the face right now without betraying her anger, so she watched the guard set one tray in front of each woman, salute Aylesbury, and exit the balcony.
“Bon appétit,” said Aylesbury.
Sertôrian tamped down her outrage as best she could. She needed to focus on finding her shipmates, and anger would only distract her. She would keep humoring Aylesbury until she saw a chance to dig for information about Valenti and de Bronk. It was a skill she’d been forced to develop during her time in the Minoan System—feigning sincere interest while a despotic captor unfolded their deluded pet philosophy, their deranged master plan.
But to do this, Sertôrian required energy, so she turned her attention to her meal.
The food on her plate was difficult to identify—an industrial slurry of beige—but inoffensive to the taste. The tray also contained five stalks of an unfamiliar vegetable and a cup of lukewarm, under-brewed tea. All told, it was an improvement on what she’d been eating for the past several weeks, and in spite of herself Sertôrian wolfed the meal down.
“So who are you?” said Sertôrian when the time seemed right to recommence their conversation. “Your organization, I mean.”
“Do you mean what defines us, aside from being secret?” said Aylesbury.
“That’s right,” said Sertôrian.
Aylesbury took a sip of tea and nodded thoughtfully.
“An excellent question,” she said. “And not an easy one to answer. There’s been fervent internal discussion lately on this very issue. We’ve even organized a committee to craft a mission statement, but the delegates can only agree that our organization is and must remain a secret one. It’s grown into quite a heated debate. Violent, even. The position you’d be filling—if you accept our offer, of course—was vacated as a result of a particularly unpleasant dispute.”
Aylesbury gave an ironic moue of regret.
“You had my predecessor killed,” said Sertôrian.
The skin around Aylesbury’s eyes creased in a brief expression of annoyance or possibly satisfaction; she was a tough woman to read.
“It wasn’t quite that simple,” said Aylesbury.
“I suppose it never is,” said Sertôrian. “I’d just like to know what I’m getting into.”
“And that circumspection is partly why we want you for the job,” said Aylesbury. “You truly are a legend, you know, and if you’ll allow me to be so bold, if you turn this job down and return home to Mars, the skills you’ve developed will be wasted by whomever you find to be in charge. The age of the Three Empires has passed, and whatever regime rises up to take their place will want to put as much distance between themselves and the Great Aurigan War as possible. You will be nothing more than an inconvenient reminder of that costly and embarrassing conflict. Here on Rhadamanthus IX, though, your skills will be put to excellent use. It’s a smaller stage than the one you’re used to, I’ll grant you that, but the role we’re offering you is a juicy one.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Sertôrian, “and I’m very flattered by all this. Truly. But I need to know more about your organization.”
Sertôrian hoped that if she kept Aylesbury talking, a chink in the woman’s armor might become apparent.
“Yes,” said Aylesbury. “Very good.” She pushed aside the plastic cafeteria tray and folded her hands together. “You know,” she said, “I told you a minute ago that secrecy was the only defining characteristic our committee could agree on.” She paused. “The more I think about it, that’s really not such a bad answer. Because, you see, our secrecy matters not only in terms of our efficacy but also our ideology. And what is our ideology? I don’t mean to sound too circular here, but our ideology is, I believe, secrecy. That’s what tripped up—what keeps tripping up—the committee.
“They’re overfocused on superficialities, so some of them believe that we exist to maintain order, much like a traditional police force, while others think we’re here to advance civilization, whatever that even means. Still others say we’re a new form of government, and I suppose none of them are outright wrong, but they are all missing the point. You see, we can’t truly succeed if anyone outside of the organization knows that we’re the ones behind it all.
“Secrecy is preeminent, because what this secret police force creates for the rank-and-file citizens of Rhadamanthus IX is the illusion of a neatly ordered universe in which events have explicit precedents and consequences. The unjust find punishment and the just receive a fitting reward. It’s a hugely ambitious undertaking, yes, but we’ve broken it up into discrete and manageable components. Allow me to explain:
“If, for example, a fellow swindles his neighbor out of a year’s salary, our organization makes sure that a misfortune of comparable severity befalls this same fellow at some point in the not-too-distant future. A broken leg, perhaps, or a flooded home. Depends on how much money he stole, of course, and what it meant to the person he stole it from. We have excellent algorithms to determine the severity of the punishments.
“We also do the opposite from time to time: reward people for good deeds performed. But that’s actually much trickier—you might not have guessed that—so we primarily focus on punishment.
“What our ideological articulation committee keeps forgetting, though, is how essential it is that the consequences we engineer appear to come about naturally. Our involvement can never be discovered, whether we’re administering a punishment or a reward, or the whole system shatters. Invisibility is vital. If nobody knows that we’re the ones pulling the strings, then they’re left to assume that what they’re observing is the essential nature of reality and that the universe is undergirded by direct and observable laws of moral justice. Keeps people on their toes, certainly, but deep down it also comforts them, provides them with the stability and consistency they crave. It’s a real gift, I believe.”
“It’s a fiction,” said Sertôrian.
“Yes,” said Aylesbury. “And it’s a benevolent one.”
Sertôrian shrugged.
“You don’t agree?” said Aylesbury.
“It’s a lot to take in,” said Sertôrian.
Among all the dangerous cranks Sertôrian had met in her lifetime, Aylesbury and her secret organization certainly ranked among the most ambitious.
“You’re a careful thinker,” said Aylesbury. “I ask you not to rush to judge us until you’ve seen the full impact of what our organization can do.”
Sertôrian could see the planet’s sun hot and heavy in the sky, but the arboretum’s trees kept the balcony pleasantly shaded. She took a moment to collect herself.
“Tell me more about the position I’d be filling,” she said.
“Ah yes,” said Aylesbury. “Head of Tactical Operations. A vital position. Vital. You would control the hands and the feet of this organization, as it were. You see, I run the Intelligence Branch of the secret police. The eyes and the ears, if you will. We gather information from around the planet, observing crimes, good deeds, and other notable occurrences, and then we share that information with the Assessments Department, who then analyze the intel and present their findings to Central Command, who grant approval to act. Once that approval is granted, the ball goes to you in Tactical Operations. Working closely with Intelligence, you will plan secret operations that will aid us in administering the types of consequences I was explaining to you a moment ago. You’ll plan these operations, then, and once Central Command green-lights your proposed operations, you will oversee their execution.”
“Interesting,” said Sertôrian.
The longer Aylesbury talked, the more her respect for Sertôrian seemed, to a certain extent, genuine. This could be just the leverage Sertôrian needed.
“It’s a splendid post,” said Aylesbury. “You’ll have over a dozen elite tactical units at your disposal. You’ll sit in on weekly closed-door meetings w
ith Central Command. You’ll have the pleasure of observing a well-run planet whose inhabitants are blissfully unaware of all the work we do for them.”
“Hmm,” said Sertôrian. She tried to maintain a polite expression as the full magnitude of the organization’s power and its lunacy became increasingly apparent.
“I’m going to lay all my cards out on the table here,” said Aylesbury. “And I’m speaking not just for myself right now but for my superiors as well. We are very excited at the prospect of your joining our organization. When you arrived on our planet, it seemed far too good to be true. We believe that you have so much to offer us, and also that the organization has so much to offer you. What do I need to do in order for you to accept this position?”
“Like I said before,” said Sertôrian, “I’m flattered.”
“But?” said Aylesbury.
Sertôrian decided to trouble the waters a bit to see what happened.
“Here’s a question that’s been bothering me,” she said, opening the valve on the torrent of emotions she’d been damming up during this whole conversation.
“Yes,” said Aylesbury.
“If you were so excited to see me here on your planet, why did you allow the Arch-Kaiser to torture me and my shipmates? And why didn’t you intervene when he sent us on what you yourself acknowledge was a wild goose chase?” said Sertôrian, allowing her voice to fill with indignation.
“Yes, that was regrettable,” said Aylesbury, growing somber. “And I do apologize. Had circumstances been different we certainly would have intervened and extricated you sooner from your difficulties. But I’m afraid we were involved in a very delicate operation of our own at that time, and your arrival served as a useful distraction for the Arch-Kaiser. I am sorry, but you know how it is.”
A hint of steel undergirded the apology.
“I’m not sure I do,” said Sertôrian.
“In time you will,” said Aylesbury.
“My other question,” said Sertôrian, ignoring the condescension, “is what happens if I say no?”
“What do you mean?” said Aylesbury.
“You know exactly what I mean,” said Sertôrian. “You’ve just told me how important—how essential—secrecy is to your organization. And now I know your secrets, or at least the biggest one: I know you exist. If I say no, then I find it hard to believe you’ll let me leave this building alive. It’d be too big a risk.”
Aylesbury’s eyes shone with a dangerous, uninterpretable light.
“In most circumstances,” she said, “you’d be right. But you, my friend, are an exception. Truly you can’t understand the degree to which we respect you here. You’re a woman of honor, Captain Sertôrian, and if you turn this position down—and I still hope you won’t—you’re free to go, provided you promise to keep our secret. You won’t be allowed to stay on Rhadamanthus IX, of course, but I don’t think you would choose to anyway.”
Sertôrian saw her window of opportunity open—just a sliver—to find out about her crew.
“I’m not sure I believe you,” she said.
“I give you my word,” said Aylesbury.
“I appreciate that,” said Sertôrian, not trusting Aylesbury for a second.
“A professional courtesy,” said Aylesbury. “It’s the least I could do.”
Now. The time was right.
“Another question, then, if you don’t mind,” said Sertôrian.
“Please,” said Aylesbury.
As she opened her mouth to finally ask the question she’d been building up to throughout this entire interview, Sertôrian realized that she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.
“My crew,” she said. “Star-Guard Ava Valenti and Technician Ernst de Bronk. Where are they?”
Aylesbury’s face grew solemn.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m afraid your shipmates didn’t make it.”
Aylesbury lowered her eyes in mock respect for the dead.
Of course. Of course they hadn’t made it.
Sertôrian clenched her fingers against the rim of the table. Why had she not anticipated this possibility? How had the thought not even crossed her mind?
“You killed them,” said Sertôrian, keeping her tone neutral.
“Absolutely not,” said Aylesbury, the glint in her eyes and the tilt of her head suggesting that she knew that Sertôrian knew that this was a lie. “We’d hoped to bring them in, just like we did with you. We even created positions for them within the organization—not as prestigious as yours, but important ones we wanted them to fill. No, we didn’t kill them. They would have been so useful to us.”
Up until this moment, Sertôrian had thought of the situation with her shipmates solely in terms of how it could be fixed. They’d done a very bad thing (Sertôrian pushed away images of the raw, gaping wound in Rosa’s throat), but they could still rally together and cohere again as a crew. They would leave Rhadamanthus IX together, and they would return home together, all a little worse for the wear but still indisputably a crew.
Now there was just Sertôrian, and there was nothing else to be done.
“How did they die?” said Sertôrian, not expecting an honest answer.
“Their necks were broken,” said Aylesbury.
“And how do you think that happened?”
“The day before we found you,” said Aylesbury, “one of our aerowagons came across their sodden corpses at the base of the Shelley Ravine. The footpath along the edge of the ravine is treacherous even under the best of conditions, and it had been raining there for days. Even a skilled mountaineer could have slipped on that narrow path.” Aylesbury pursed her lips in a savage imitation of sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”
The whole charade was beginning to make Sertôrian sick.
“Can I see the bodies?” she said.
“We thought it would be best to incinerate them,” said Aylesbury.
“I see,” said Sertôrian.
This, she surmised, was no lie, and what surprised and horrified Sertôrian most of all was that as the news of her shipmates’ deaths sunk in, it filled her not with rage, not with sorrow, but with a delirious sense of relief. The burden of leadership she had carried for years was, in an instant, lifted from her shoulders. She fought back a frightening urge to laugh, and before the full weight of their deaths could catch up to her, she braced herself against the table and said, “I’ll take the job.”
FOURTEEN
I must move quickly. Our time together nears its end. As I write these words, the clangs and creaks of a docking spacecraft fill the air. Within the hour, the convent’s main gate will open and the entry hall will echo with either the happy laughter of our rescuing comrades or the sharp crack of gunfire.
At my feet sits the very suitcase I brought with me from my home planet of Argus II when I first arrived at the convent so many decades ago. Back then it contained a week’s worth of clothing and a new set of zero-grav fountain pens that my mother had given me as a going-away present. Now its contents are far less innocuous. I can’t reveal the specifics, but on the off chance that the approaching spacecraft contains not armed troops but our rescuing colleagues, we must be ready to board the ship immediately and depart for ports I cannot name, where we’ll unite with our surviving sisters from around the galaxy to combat the tyrannical and ever-growing forces of the seven rogue Delegarchs.
Over the past three days, then, I have, to the best of my ability, put my affairs in order—a repulsively tidy phrase to describe the absurd process of preparing oneself for the terminus of one’s own life. As mentioned previously, I packed my suitcase in the unlikely event of a rescue. I cleaned my quarters, cut my hair, and watered my plants. I made every effort to complete the composition of this study. And I played, presumably, my last game of two-handed oubliette with Sister Be
atriz.
And I have, of course, packed my suitcase with care, including only what’s necessary for the task that may lie ahead of us. Unfortunately, I could conjure no sound justification for including this bulky manuscript, so when I’ve finished copying out the end of the Rhadamanthus IX account, I’ll leave the ink-stained codex here at the convent in hopes that someday it might find its ideal reader, whoever that might be.
Not all of my unfinished business, however, was as tangible as suitcases and houseplants. Previously in this manuscript, I wrote of a pressing need to unburden myself of certain long-hidden feelings. One might think that a deadline as nonnegotiable as death would quell any tendency to procrastination, but I’m chagrined to inform you that my impending mortality has left my capacity to delay some needful tasks completely intact. Rather than resolve the situation immediately after composing those lines, I waited until yesterday afternoon, when I’d finished transcribing the conclusion of the Rhadamanthus IX episode, to make an oblique and mealy-mouthed confession.
I was repacking my suitcase—having reconsidered, not for the first time, what I might want to bring with me on the off chance that we’re rescued—and I couldn’t find my pocketknife, as useful an item as any, I would suppose, for a possible galactic insurgency. I had a vague recollection of loaning the knife to Sister Beatriz, so I decided to pay her a visit.
I found her in her sleeping chamber, a menagerie of personal belongings strewn about the room.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” I said.
“Please do,” she said. “Sit down, if you can find a place to sit. I apologize for the mess.”
“No need,” I said, and then sat down on the edge of the wooden chest where Sister Beatriz keeps all of her ontoscope slides.
Her suitcase, a battered leather portmanteau, sat open and empty in the middle of the bed. I watched Sister Beatriz as she packed and then unpacked a series of items whose necessity she apparently could not decide on. Finally, after packing, unpacking, packing again, and then unpacking a gyroscopic sextant, Sister Beatriz turned to face me, one hand on her hip, the other holding her angular face.
