by C. Gockel
“You’ve said that 100.5 times,” James snapped.
“How could I have said the universe is conspiring—”
James cut him off. “Be quiet.”
6T9’s Q-comm sparked in understanding. “I understand the .5 decimal now!”
“Fantastic,” James replied dryly.
6T9 blinked. “I think I’m dimming a bit. I can see a bit more.”
“I’m not naked anymore; I put on the clothes they gave us.”
6T9 groaned. “The uni—”
“Shut. Up!”
6T9’s Q-comm sparked. “Does that count as 101.25 times or 100.75 times?”
“Put your clothes on,” James said. “Something is happening out there.”
“Could you put them on me?” 6T9 whined. “I can’t see at all…”
“You just said your vision’s coming back,” James replied. “By the ribbons on that man’s chest, I’d say he is the captain. He doesn’t look happy.”
“Darmadi…” said 6T9, feeling for his clothes, not certain why he was suddenly so concerned with his nakedness. His hands closed on heavyweight Luddeccean silk. It wasn’t a luxury fabric on Luddeccea, but it was, as Eliza had often exclaimed, “luxurious.” He’d just finished slipping Eliza’s safely autoclaved ashes into his waistband and was pulling on the shirt when the airlock door opened. Cold air rushed in, and he heard James leave the room. 6T9 hopped after him. The clothing he wore—a criminally boring dark gray long-sleeved shirt over matching pants—cut down the glow from his invisi-filaments, and the cold dimmed them further—but the world was still blurry. James stood just outside the door. The Luddeccean Guard lined the wall on their right; the Marines were on the left. Volka was standing near the door to the airlock, a bit set off from everyone, ears curled. She looked back at Sixty, and her ears lifted. Standing just inside the airlock to the decon chamber was her former lover, Captain Alaric Darmadi. His hands were behind his back, his chin high. He was flanked by Dr. John Bower, Trina, and a white werfle. Behind him were four armed guards.
Static flared along 6T9’s spine and his Q-comm sparked. Darmadi had tried to save Volka—but then tried to kill her after she and 6T9 had saved him.
“Androids,” Alaric said. “I had hoped that our next stop would be System 1.”
James strode farther into the decon chamber, stopping a few paces from Darmadi. 6T9 followed but stopped at Volka. If he were telepathic, or she had ether access, he could reassure her that they survived pirates and Luddecceans before, and they would survive this. But all he could do was wink and hope she got the message.
James’s voice snapped 6T9’s focus to the front of the room. “You thought System 1 would be our next stop, but it won’t be.”
Alaric’s chin lifted higher. “No, it will not.”
The androids had exited the airlock, and Alaric was still standing, living, and breathing. The first strode directly up to Alaric. It had features that were visibly European, blonde hair, and blue eyes. The second Alaric recognized as the deviant android from Libertas. It stopped next to Volka, turned its head to her, and winked. Maybe it didn’t control her with technology, but could it control her with psychology? He couldn’t believe Volka would be involved with it but found himself biting back the urge to order it escorted out the airlock hatch.
Both androids made his stomach turn, but for the sake of his orders and his crew, he was determined not to show it. He told himself not to think of picking through gears of the android spy he’d cornered on Adam’s Station and the shattered bodies and gore of dead children, or of the woman’s head blown clear off her body, her face a mask of terror. Other Guardsmen had too many similar stories to count, but he remembered the archbishop’s words, “James Sinclair won’t attack unprovoked. Sixty can’t.”
The one called “James Sinclair” tilted its head and sneered. “May I ask where we will be going instead of System 1?”
Alaric’s nostrils flared, but he held his ground and his temper. “We will be returning to Time Gate 33.” There were murmurs around the decon chamber. Alaric waited for them to quiet and then said, “I have just learned from...Trina…” His jaw got tight, and for a moment he could not speak. It was hard to refer to the androids by names, but that is what the Galacticans called the female-appearing android, and right now, he needed their help. He straightened his shoulders. They needed Luddeccean help as well. “I have just learned from Trina that a fleet of repair ‘bots aboard the gate have come online. She believes the gate will be repaired within eighteen hours.” And they had thirteen before the next jump.
Alaric’s own Luddeccean Guardsmen’s faces remained impassive. They didn’t understand the danger or discounted it. Ran himself had said, “Why should we care if the gate becomes operational? The plague will take care of our worst enemies.” But a disease in the Galactic Republic would reach Luddeccea eventually—and the Luddecceans would be less prepared to deal with it. Half of their capital had just been wiped out by a variant of a disease that hadn’t caused massive deaths since before space colonization began.
The Galactic Fleet Marines grasped the danger immediately. Alaric heard sharp intakes of breath from their ranks, and a few men wiped their faces, their expressions grim. He heard a tiny gulp from Volka but didn’t allow himself to look at her. His skin heated and his jaw tightened. She shouldn’t be involved in this. She should be someplace safe. What sort of barbarians dragged a civilian woman into this sort of mess?
Trina, the woman—android, he reminded himself—nodded. “It’s true. It happened not long after we came aboard. I can see their activity but...” She bowed her head. “...I cannot stop it.”
Dr. John Bower spoke up. “Trina and I sabotaged the repair ‘bots before my team escaped in the station.”
“It is one of those things I forgot about,” said Trina, sounding disturbingly sorrowful.
“You sustained a lot of damage during the operation,” said John. Alaric didn’t consider himself the sort of man who noticed another man’s affairs with women or with men—he purposefully ignored such details of his men’s lives—but the softness of Dr. Bower’s eyes could be heard in the man’s voice. It made Alaric’s eye twitch.
“Not enough,” whispered Trina, and no machine should sound so despairing.
Alaric met James Sinclair’s eyes. The android had no expression, and that was comforting. He—it—behaved more like a android should. To James, Alaric said, “It might be impossible for a ship this size to destroy a time gate.” His lips twisted at the understatement. Once a Luddeccean Guard armada had been held at bay by Time Gate 8. They only triumphed because of the crack team of Luddecceans who had disabled the gate from the inside…at least, that was what he’d been taught. In the last hour and a half, he’d learned that the “crack team” hadn’t been Luddeccean at all. It had been Archbishop Sato’s sister and the android standing before Alaric. Hands tightening behind his back, Alaric continued, “But it might be possible to destroy the time bands.” The time gate’s time bands were massive and required the power of four reactors. The bands were also relatively fragile. Unlike the reactors that powered them, they couldn’t be shielded by physical barriers, only the defenses of the station and the time-bending abilities of the bands themselves. Those abilities weren’t fully operational…yet.
The android Sinclair didn’t give any indication that he’d heard.
“I’m looking for ideas,” Alaric said, proud at how well he kept desperation out of his voice. “I hear you are the one I need to speak to.”
For a long moment, the android regarded him, but then it held out its hand and said, “We haven’t been introduced. I’m James Sinclair.”
Alaric stared at the hand for a beat too long. He felt a muscle in his jaw jump, but he took the offered hand and shook it. It felt too human. “Captain Alaric Darmadi.”
Releasing his hand, Sinclair said, “I will do everything in my power to help you disable the gate.”
The werfle at Alaric’s feet b
egan chirping madly. Touching his neural port, James took a step back. “Volka can understand them without ether. Volka, is he trying to say something?”
Alaric’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. For a moment, he thought the android was joking—but machines didn’t have humor, did they?
Coming forward, ears pressed tight against her head, Volka said, “He wishes to be introduced. His name is Isssh, James…Mr. Sinclair, I mean Mr. Sinclair...and Lieutenant Young. His name is Isssh.” His crew glanced briefly at her as she stepped forward, and then their eyes snapped to Alaric. Volka was beautiful, even with her short wolfish gray hair, yellow eyes, and wolf ears. The suit she wore was too revealing, showing that despite her petite stature, she was perfectly formed. Guardsmen didn’t normally treat weere with such respect. They knew she was Alaric’s weere. He’d have to prove to them that her presence wouldn’t distract him. She looked so exquisitely uncomfortable—he was already distracted. He quickly looked away.
“Hello, Isssh,” said James, bowing slightly.
“Good to meet you, sir,” said Young, copying the android’s bow. “We wouldn’t have made it without Carl Sagan, and we’d like to know his condition.”
Eyes still downcast, Volka replied, “Isssh says, Carl Sagan is recovering in sickbay. He wants to reassure us that his wave-kin is just exhausted.”
That was exactly what Alaric’s ship doctor had said. Alaric shifted on his feet, feeling a creeping unease at the base of his spine as Volka continued. “It was very difficult for Carl to rupture what would be the equivalent of a cerebral artery, especially after the long night we had. Werfles typically need sixteen hours of sleep a day.”
Alaric swallowed down his bile, the implications of what she’d just declared sinking in. If it was true, the werfles were…demons. Or aliens. The distinction didn’t matter that much. He thought of Wild Solomon and the bodies in the truck. Had Alaric only been spared because he’d kept a werfle as a pet as a child and teenager? His nails bit into his palm. His parents liked telling the story of how Alaric as a little boy had declared that he was Solomon’s pet.
He didn’t want to believe any of it, but the Galactican lieutenant continued to address “Isssh,” saying, “We’re glad to know he’ll be recovering.”
When Alaric’s own people testified to werfle demonic possession, he could discount it as superstition. But having citizens of the scientifically advanced Galactic Republic treat the creatures as equals was something else again. It cracked the last known certainty in his world. He exhaled. He didn’t have the luxury of being uncertain, shocked, or uneasy. If he lost his calm, his crew would, too, and Archbishop Sato himself had declared a truce with the creatures. The time gate was about to be weaponized. He had to focus on that. Everything else—Volka, the werfles’ brief war on his people, his life—was inconsequential. He didn’t have time for his heart or survivor’s guilt.
To Lieutenant Young, Alaric said, “My quartermaster can see that your men’s suits are cleaned and give them rations, quarters, and shower access. I’d like to convene with you, James, Trina, Dr. Bower, and senior members of my crew now.”
Trina trilled, “Oh, and we should bring Volka and Android General 1!”
Wincing, the deviant ‘bot from the inn on Libertas said, “That’s not really my name, Trina, and military strategy isn’t part of my core programming.”
Trina stepped past Alaric. “But Android General 1, you and Volka are my best hope. You singlehandedly rescued over three hundred stolen ‘bots, one of them a QC ‘bot from the infamous Copperhead pirates!” Tapping her lip, the woman added, “But you have four hands between you, so does it really count as singlehandedly? What a peculiar expression. I suppose it does roll off the tongue better than fourhandedly, though.”
“We couldn’t have done it without Carl,” Volka murmured. “So it maybe should be fourteenhandedly?” She did not look up, and she sounded exhausted rather than flippant. Strange at all that she would speak in front of so many humans without being spoken to first.
“Nonsense,” Trina said. “He has paws, not hands. But that does get truly awkward. Fourhandedly and ten-pawedly. Yes, I can see the advantages of only saying singlehandedly.” Trina turned to Alaric, and his eyes snapped away from Volka. Trina’s brown eyes were wide and disturbingly earnest looking. “Droid General 1 weaponized a hold full of sex ‘bots,” she said.
Someone from his crew whispered, “I knew having sex with a ‘bot would be a bad idea.”
Clearing his throat, ‘Sixty,’ as the archbishop had called him, or ‘Android General 1,’ as Trina called him, said, “‘Weaponized’ is too strong a word. I merely upped their masochism settings and utilized their ‘Hey, Sailor’ routines, to make them, well, more annoying.”
“If anyone would know how to make them more annoying, it would be you,” James muttered.
“Sixty thinks outside the box,” said the lieutenant. “He might be an asset.”
“Errr...I really need to reboot,” Sixty said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Otherwise I might invite the captain to knock me around again.”
Alaric’s face flushed. He took a step forward but bit his tongue and kept his hands behind his back.
Sixty grabbed his head with both hands. “See what I mean?”
“You will not reboot,” James rumbled. “And you will stay with me.”
Sixty sighed. “All right.”
Holding out a hand for them to pass, jaw tight, Alaric said, “Let’s go, then.”
Trina put a hand on Volka’s shoulders. Her voice became imploring. “Volka should come too! She dispatched the Copperhead’s captain—while the captain was in a phaser proof and stun-proof mech-suit—with only a pistol and her cunning! Please, Captain, it would help me—and the cause—so much if she’s invited.”
Alaric’s whole body went rigid. His eyes slid to Volka. Her head was down, but she didn’t deny what Trina had said. Had he thought the last certainty in the universe had crumbled when the Galacticans had begun speaking to the werfle? He had been wrong. Volka? Destroying a pirate captain in a mech-suit? It had to be a mistake...yet the Volka he knew would correct Trina if she’d lied.
“I’m not surprised,” said Lieutenant Young. “Volka’s tiny but she packs a punch and keeps a cool head.”
Volka started to speak. “Captain, sir, I’m sure I don’t belong—”
The werfle squeaked.
Volka glared at it. “But you can talk to them through the ether! Carl does it without—”
At the word “ether,” there were sharp intakes of breath from the Guardsmen.
Volka looked around, ears flicking nervously.
It was way past when Alaric should have started damage control. Raising his hand toward the door, Alaric said, “Just come with us.” He did his best to keep his voice level, even though he was furious.
Sometimes Carl Sagan could be condescending and annoying. Volka decided Isssh was more so. “I can of course talk through the ether,” thought Isssh, hopping just ahead of her feet as they walked single file down the narrow hallway. Two Guardsmen were at the head, then John and Trina holding hands, followed by Young, Alaric, and James. Volka, Isssh, and Sixty were bringing up the rear, along with two Guard just behind them. The hallway was so narrow Volka could have touched both walls with outstretched arms, and the ceiling was so low she was afraid Alaric or Sixty would bump their heads. Everything was painted white or black, and it smelled like men’s sweat and dirty socks. There were funny “rungs” in the walls and in the ceiling at regular intervals—Alaric’s and Sixty’s heads just barely skimmed beneath them.
“How do you think I talk to the archbishop?”
Volka blinked down at him.
“His neural net was deactivated. I reactivated it, but I prefer not to use the ether or their neural nets at all,” Isssh continued. “It’s primitive. They should learn to communicate like civilized beings. I’m afraid that Carl and his recently once-sister’s insistence that we accommodate their
weakness will impair human evolution of wave consciousness.”
His words left her numb instead of angry.
“It’s the truth, and I think in your heart you feel it,” Isssh replied.
The ship around her was beginning to blur. She needed sleep, that was all she knew. Alaric, James, Young, and even Trina and John seemed fine. It was frustrating to be so weak.
“Well,” said Isssh, “Alaric and John haven’t been awake much longer than a standard cycle. James and Trina are androids, primitive and disgustingly wave ignorant as they are, they don’t require sleep. Young has scores of alertness nanos scouring waste from his brain and body cells. He’ll be fully functional for another thirty-six hours or so. I have no idea what is wrong with the 6T9 thing.” He sniffed disdainfully.
As if hearing Isssh’s thoughts, Sixty said, “I need a reboot. If I say anything untoward, I apologize in advance. I’m just trying not to have a hardware malfunction at the moment.”
Volka swallowed and glanced back to make sure he wasn’t having a “hardware malfunction.” Alaric could take a request to be “knocked around” in stride and would roll his eyes at a “malfunction.” He’d ignored and rejected advances from his uncle’s circle of friends on more than one occasion. Most Luddeccean men would feel in their rights to knock Sixty around. Granted, Sixty might enjoy it if he “turned up his masochism settings,” but Volka certainly wouldn’t want to see it happen. She thought again of FET12 and hoped that there wouldn’t be any other Luddecceans in the meeting they were attending.
As if in answer to her question, Alaric said, “The Archbishop Kenji Sato is the one who ordered your team rescued. He is aboard this vessel and will be attending the meeting.”
James came to an abrupt halt, and the whole party paused.
Behind her, Sixty cursed, “Rusted gears.”
“He’s here? Aboard?” James asked. Before anyone had a chance to answer, he growled. “This is a trap.”
