The Chaplain's War

by Brad R Torgersen

  “It’s okay,” I said. “My technical helpers came to the rescue. And it’s not like turnabout isn’t fair play. When we were onboard the Calysta it was you who became surrounded by hostile enemies. So let us consider the debt evened, and the fault resolved. Done?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  I got up out of my chair and began to walk around the room.

  “If you’re feeling claustrophobic,” she said, “I could arrange for an escorted tour.”

  “It’s not the ship that interests me. It’s the goings-on outside the ship. The battles still being fought while we race to begin the recall process. I fear a great deal, and hope against the odds.”

  “Myself as well,” she said. “The vessel is moving at maximum possible velocity now. We will arrive at the first staging base very soon. Then it can be seen whether or not my words can pull us back from the heart of the storm I’ve created.”

  The door opened and my technician friends arrived. They almost bowed in the Queen Mother’s direction—not speaking a word, but seemingly transmitting their greetings and deference carriage-to-carriage.

  “We would like to know more about children,” they said.

  The Queen Mother looked at me. “Do you mind if I stay for this?”

  “No,” I said. “Though I can’t say I’ll be able to give good answers. I am not a parent.”

  “When human children are hatched,” said one of the three, “are they afforded no assistance at all?”

  “What do you mean by ‘assistance’?” I asked.

  “Technological,” said another. “For the mantis, his or her first thoughts are in conjunction with the carriage-joining process.”

  “You mean,” I said, “the newborn’s first thoughts are as a result of the carriage-mantis mental interface?”

  “Yes,” they said. “The newborn begins learning almost immediately. It is a process that takes many of your weeks—as the fundamental skills and knowledge are slowly integrated into the young adult’s mind.”

  “Almost like loading an operating system onto a blank computer,” I theorized.

  “Very much like that, yes,” said the one who’d not spoken up yet.

  “For humans it’s not that easy,” I said. “We have no machine-mind interface. Nothing to download or upload. The baby—what we call our version of a pupa—is totally helpless and dependent on its mother and father for food, protection, cleaning, you name it. The mother and father do it all.”

  “When does learning begin?”

  “Immediately,” I said. “But for us it’s purely experiential. And it takes a long time. Most of us don’t even know how to walk until we’re many Earth months old. Talking takes longer still. In fact, language skills are a primary emphasis right up until true adulthood, and even then it’s never a totally complete process. So you might say, our journey from infancy to adulthood never really finishes. At least not for most of us.”

  The three technicians drifted away to converse amongst themselves while I sat at my desk and sipped at a cup of cool water. I’d have loved a soft drink or something with a little zing to it. But at least my water didn’t have dirt in it.

  “You receive no template?” the Queen Mother asked me.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Our young adults are given a basic set of what you might call ‘operating instructions,’ which prepare them properly to interact with adults and the mantis way of life. This happens through the carriage interface, and the template is the same for all of us. Regardless of our station. It’s part of what allows us to begin individuated training so early, and also what keeps our society cohesive and rooted in mantis laws and traditions. It is what makes us who we are.”

  “For us, all of that comes in time,” I said. “But everything depends on the parents.”

  “No two parents give the same template?”

  “Hardly. Though many try. A great deal hinges on traditions and communities, national original, ethnic identity, among many other things.”

  “Then the templates of one parent or group of parents could be totally different from the templates of another,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “No wonder humans are divided against humans,” she said.

  I could hardly disagree with her.

  “But it’s not all bad,” I said. “For most of us, childhood is a wonderful time of discovery and exploration. Barring a few bumps and bruises.”

  “You liked your childhood?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Mantis young adults are raised in collective training,” said the Queen Mother. “Depending on who mates with whom—the female, and the male—their eggs will be destined to form new generations of farmers, factory workers, warriors, technicians, computer experts, and also researchers like the Professor.”

  “Can mantes ever change jobs?” I asked.

  “What does that mean?” asked one of the technicians; they’d jointly floated back over to listen to the conversation.

  “Can a mantis decide for him- or herself that, say, he or she no longer wants to be a farmer and instead wants to be an architect?”

  “Why would we do that?” asked one of the technicians.

  I looked at the Queen Mother. This was a bit unsettling.

  “Secondary templates,” she said. “Once the basics have been disseminated into the young adult consciousness, then comes the preparation for productive application in mantis industrial society.”

  “So what was your secondary template?” I asked her.

  She thought about it for a moment.

  “I was female, so this of course put me on track for the Quorum of the Select at an early age. We have far more males than females among us. I suppose my template was decided accordingly.”

  “And these technicians,” I said, tipping he head in their direction, “they must have been secondarily templated for starship maintenance.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Does that bother you?” I asked the technicians.

  “Does what bother us?” they said in unison.

  “Does it bother you that before you were even hatched—or pupated—that all three of you had your roles in mantis culture selected for you without your knowledge or consent? That you were in fact programmed for this specific work?”

  They stared at me.

  “We are what we are,” they said. “How could it be otherwise? Each mantis does his part for the whole. We do not worry about how each of the different pieces of the machine feels about its function, simply that our specific piece works as well as it can, so that the machine as a whole works as well as it can. If we started doubting ourselves . . . it would lead to chaos.”

  “It was chaos,” the Queen Mother said. “The Professor may or may not have shared this, but long ago, during the time of the First Expansion, the mantes were not nearly as cohesive as we are now. There was great discord and division, although I do not think it approaches what you have described as being common on Earth. When the earliest carriages were developed—it is believed—the Quorum of the Select mandated that all pupating mantes be given as much advanced preparation for their healthy participation in society as possible. It has greatly helped us to maintain peace and harmony ever since. Every mantis has his or her place, and every mantis is happy in his or her place.”

  I said nothing. Such language—spoken on Earth—had been used by rulers throughout history to justify castes and permanent stratification of society. Or worse. It was fairly grotesque to hear such language coming out of the Queen Mother’s mouth. It was even more grotesque to see my three tech helpers happily agreeing with the Queen Mother. Yet another reminder that while mantis minds and human minds worked equally well, our thoughts could often be very far apart.

  “So the Professor did not decide on his own to become a Professor,” I said.

  “He could have resisted this,” she said. “But why would he?”

  “Why would any of us?” said one of the techni
cians.

  “When we are doing our work, we are happiest,” said another.

  I resisted the urge to shudder.

  “It is not so for humans?”

  I shook my head vigorously.

  “Humans seldom have just one occupation in their lives. And while we spend a lot of time schooling, and parents especially can sometimes try to direct their children into a specific path or vocation, whether or not that child actually chooses to remain on that path or in that vocation for the long-term is a matter for the individual to decide.”

  Now it was the mantes’ turn to give me the funny looks. All four of them backed away ever so slightly. The Queen Mother seemed especially uncomfortable, based on the agitation in her movements.

  “You will leave now,” she said.

  The technicians exited without a word of protest.

  “Clearly,” I said, “there are great differences between our people, in addition to great similarities.”

  “Clearly,” she said.

  “This templating process you describe,” I said, “if it were applied on Earth it would be considered grossly immoral.”

  “Why?”

  “Because in the past when it has been applied—albeit externally, through a combination of indoctrination, force of law, and violence—it’s been condemned. Either in the moment, or by history. As a rule, we humans prize our independence and our right to choose.”

  “Mantes are also independent,” she said.

  “Yes, but apparently only to a point. You’re the Queen Mother because from birth you were slotted to be among the people who might be chosen for that role. The Professor was a researcher because he was preselected for the job. In most human societies we resist that kind of thing. Though, as I said, there have been governments, societies, and even religions which have tried.”

  “And what has your independence gotten you?” she said. “You said it, Padre: humanity squandered its resources and its potential by fighting with itself, instead of uniting and pooling all talent, energy, and material towards a common goal—or set of common goals.”

  I was really getting uncomfortable now. She must have smelled it in the air.

  “I will now return to the delicate process of adjusting and removing components of my carriage,” she said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  She hovered towards the open door. Halfway out she turned back to me and said, “Just because we mantes have a certain way of doing things, and of being, and of thinking, I am not sure that means we’re wrong.”

  “Just because we humans have a certain way of doing, and being, and thinking, that doesn’t mean we’re wrong either.”

  She looked at me.

  I looked right back.

  She left, and the door closed without another word.

  CHAPTER 52

  LATER THAT DAY, THE QUEEN MOTHER REAPPEARED IN MY doorway.

  “We are near to arrival,” she said.

  “Good,” I said. “The sooner we can get started, the sooner we can save lives.”

  “I want to apologize if I offended,” she said.

  “Me too,” I admitted. “I feel like our last conversation didn’t necessarily end on the friendliest note.”

  “I detected no music,” she said

  “It’s a human turn of phrase,” I said. “It means we didn’t leave with the best feeling or understanding of each other.”

  “I see. Well, come with me, Padre,” she said. “I would like to take you to our ship’s command nexus.”

  I walked out into the corridor. Not only were the three technicians present, but a squad of armed soldier mantes as well.

  “Royal guard?” I asked her, pointing to the troops.

  “You could say that,” she said.

  We proceeded slowly, with all the other mantes on the ship giving us a wide berth as we passed.

  Again I noted how wrong human assumptions had been regarding mantis ship design and architecture. No slime, no stench, no bizarrely nestlike or hivelike honeycombing. The bulkheads and the decks and the superstructure were as ordinary and, indeed, comfortingly plain as that which could be found aboard a Fleet vessel. I let myself peek through hatches that opened and closed along our route, which revealed other technicians and soldiers and mantes whose roles I couldn’t guess at, moving to and fro in quiet harmony.

  Though I suspected if I could “hear” the communication between their carriages, I’d be bombarded with a cacophony of conversation.

  A tiny audible warble came from the ceiling.

  “We have returned to conventional propulsion,” the Queen Mother said. “It will only be a little while longer before we dock.”

  “Space station?” I asked.

  “One of many,” she replied. “This system is one of our most developed forward systems, near to what you would call the border between our peoples. A great deal of military and civilian traffic passes through this place. From here I can dispatch couriers to the other deploying bases, and attempt to begin the recall. I will also be able to assess how effective our offensive has been to date—how much damage has been done to human colonies.”

  “Or mantis colonies,” I said.

  The Queen Mother looked at me—her antennae curled with mild irony.

  I figured she didn’t need to be reminded of the fact that our most recent planet of residence had still been in play at the time of our departure. For all we knew, the Fleet had prevailed and the Queen Mother’s flagship was the only mantis survivor to have departed. Or perhaps Fleet had been utterly smashed, and the world—indeed, the whole system—was in mantis possession.

  We should know soon.

  Suddenly, there was a rumble through the deck. Then another, louder rumble. A differently-pitched warble sounded in the air, and the soldiers around us quickly formed a defensive ring around the Queen Mother.

  Her antennae were quivering.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “We are . . . we are being attacked.”

  “Attacked?” I said, startled. “By whom?”

  A third, louder rumble. I stumbled and caught myself on the edge of one of the technician’s discs.

  There was a pause.

  “Your Fleet,” said the Queen Mother. “Human warships. Many of them. The entire staging base is under attack. There are . . . we have come out of jumpspace into the middle of a battle!”

  I blinked.

  Of all the things I’d expected when we reached our destination, this hadn’t been on the list. How Fleet had managed to locate the base was a mystery, to say nothing of how Fleet had found a way to spare the ships for a deep-penetration attack. Sakumora and his people had apparently been more clever than I’d given them credit for.

  I remembered that Adanaho had mentioned stealth missions. Perhaps one of them had chanced across this place? That it was under siege either boded very well for the human side of the equation, or it was a desperate maneuver designed to distract the Fourth Expansion. Put them on a defensive footing. Buying time for Earth?

  I suddenly had so many questions. But as had happened on the Calysta, there was no time. Like déjà vu, we were being plunged into a cataclysm entirely beyond our control.

  The artificial gravity wavered. I felt my stomach waver.

  A third, louder, bass-heavy warble began to sound continuously.

  The armed contingent around us began to move. The Queen Mother seemed as confused as I was, what with herself, me, and the technicians all being swept down a side corridor—away from our original path through the bowels of the mantis ship.

  “What’s happening?” I yelled over the noise.

  “Hull breaches,” the Queen Mother said, her speaker grille belying the fear that she felt. “We are being boarded.”

  Boarded?

  “Human marines,” I guessed.

  “Yes! My guards are tasked with defending me with their lives. We are being taken to a safe place within the ship where it will be difficult for intruders to r
each. Padre, do not let yourself be separated from me. I cannot guarantee your safety otherwise.”

  I momentarily considered breaking for it and trying to find my way to an exterior passage—somewhere I might run into humans. The Queen Mother didn’t really need me anymore. She’d be able to recall her people perfectly fine without me. And I certainly couldn’t offer her any more protection than the guards who had been posted to her. With their armored carriages, replete with lethal weapons.

  But then . . . no.

  Any mantis happening across me during a hostile boarding action was liable to mistake me for one of the marines, and shoot me on sight.

  I kept up with the Queen Mother as best I was able, jogging while the rest of them cruised on their carriage impellers.

  We halted at the hatch for what appeared to be a lift tube.

  The only thing distinctly different about the mantis ship was that there were no obvious buttons or switches. Everything seemed to operate by proximity sensor, or according to the silent broadcasts of the carriages themselves. When we waited at the lift tube door for too long—additional concussive blasts sounding through the ship, letting us know that there was precious little time to waste—the Queen Mother engaged in a quick exchange with her guards. The lot of them huddled: conversing carriage-to-carriage.

  “This way,” she said.

  And suddenly we were moving rapidly away from the lift tube complex, back the way we’d come.

  “Malfunction?” I asked.

  “Emergency override,” the Queen Mother answered. “Because we have hostile forces inside the vessel, all means of mechanized travel are suspended until further notice. Per ship’s protocol. We must hurry. If we don’t get to one of the—”

  The Queen Mother was cut off as we rounded a corner and came face to face with a squad of humans. The marines were clad in space armor not too different from the sort I’d trained in, back in the day. Only this model appeared even more flexible and robust than what I’d been wearing when I landed on Purgatory. The face plates were silvered against blast flashes, and each marine had his or her rifle up—the descendent model of the R77A5, no doubt.