by Tony Daniel
“In any case, I’ve left you the pleasure of delivering the news to her personally,” Milt continued. His nostril flare widened.
He actually is being kind, thought Ricimer. Informing Susten of her fate was something Milt would enjoy.
But he must not underestimate Milt merely because the receptor was a sadist. That was practically a job requirement in a DDCM operant. Ricimer had known the receptor for many cycles. They had served together through two wars—Gossamer and the aborted Sol invasion. He’d even gotten drunk with Milt more than once on NH4 nebulizers—once massively so in a particularly star-crossed spate of carousing on the Sol C moon—and he knew Milt was capable of genuine feeling at such moments. Like Ricimer, he’d lost a beloved wife. Her name was Jareala, and she had died a painful and lingering death of Host’s Disease. Jareala truly had been a good woman, and was a friend to Del until her demise. Milt was raising the four children, all of whom lived with his own parents in a tiny apartment in the Officer’s Arm. Ricimer knew Milt had high hopes for his offspring. He’d even asked Ricimer for an Academy recommendation for his youngest when the time came.
Very soon, things would not go well for those children, thought Ricimer. Best not to ponder such things at this particular moment.
Most of all, Milt was extremely clever and ambitious himself. You didn’t become vessel receptor on a class-defining starcraft by being apathetic, at least not in the DDCM. Witness his finding the gypsum oversight in the cargo manifest. Idiotic not to have double-checked that manifest himself. Susten really had made a near-catastrophic mistake.
Nothing to be done but deal with the foul-up. It was far too late to turn back at this point.
“Receptor, let me clear us from Shiro Portal, and then I believe we have our usual business in V-CENT,” Ricimer said. “I estimate exiting the guidance zone at atentia twenty-three sixty. Shall we convene at twenty-three one hundred? We’ll attend to Craft Orders, then I’ll have Susten summoned and we’ll handle her demerit and set her shriving.”
“That would be agreeable, Companion Arid. And I have several more manifest discrepancies I’d like to go over with you at that point, too. Nothing major.”
“Of course, Receptor.”
“Thrive the Administration.”
“Thrive the Administration.”
Milt bounced out with his usual frenetic energy, and Ricimer turned to the task at hand. He needed to get his vessel off guidance as soon as possible. That meant taking her out to a fifteen light-momentia distance from the Shiro. The move after that would depend on what happened when he and Milt activated Governess’s encrypted Craft Orders for the voyage.
“Forward full thrust, Commander Talid.”
“Aye, Captain,” she replied. “We’ve got blips dead ahead one light-momentia, sir. Probably merchantmen.”
“Instruct them to move their backsides, Ms. Talid. Sporata vessels must have right-of-way in this sector for safety’s sake. If they give you any guff, put an override lock on their drives and power down their engines for a few atentias.”
“Aye, Captain.” Talid squeezed a hand into her officer’s console and delivered detailed instructions to the rest of the crew. Ricimer listened in out of habit over the craft’s virtual feed but did not interfere. He trusted Talid completely when it came to executing his orders in such a routine matter. Instead he turned his attention to his virtual feed from Lamella, the craft-specific computer, and memorized—or, rather, at this point in his career, it was more an internalization—engine conditions and weapons energy draw as the data came streaming in. He knew the spec book on his vessel backward and forward in the abstract, but he needed to become intimately familiar with the quirks of this particular craft if he was to push her to her limits. And he would be pushing.
When Ricimer looked up from his virtual labors, he saw that the blips were rapidly clearing from the beta screen. Talid had put the fear of the Civitas Council into them—and the possibility of being rammed by a half-instantiated Sporata warcraft.
The Guardian of Night had her clear path to the stars.
TWO
Receptor Milt was late in arriving for the reading of Craft Orders, as Ricimer had expected. It was the DDCM way to never miss an opportunity to show who was really in charge.
V-CENT, Vessel Central Processing, was the computational heart of the craft. The memory banks of the two vessel computers (every Sporata craft had a bicameral computational system) lined all the bulkheads of the chamber. They were the bulkheads here, Ricimer knew. They were cellular machines, engineered by a race even older than the Guardians and conquered only after a long war. The bulkheads were a grayish white, and they twinkled with ethereal flashes of subatomic particles created and destroyed, quantum realities called into brief existence—realities that overlapped, canceled, or reinforced one another, as a billion-billion possible worlds were sifted through the computer processors every vitia, like so many grains of sand. The results were projected upon a table which had a top at chest height. It was designed to be looked down upon from a standing position.
Ricimer leaned against the projection table, took a deep breath of craft atmosphere.
Here we go.
There were no chairs in the chamber, but there was a small levitated serving cabinet that was parked next to a bulkhead corner, as Ricimer had directed. He expelled his breath slowly, then stepped over to the cabinet and opened it up. Inside were two ammonium hydroxide nebulizers, polymer bubbles that held what was normally a gas in a pressurized, semiliquid state. Ricimer took them out. A straw protruded from one side of each bubble and ended in a device similar to a perfume atomizer. The object was to squirt the contents directly onto the nostrils and suffuse the nasal membranes with what was, for a Guardian, a powerful stimulant, depending on the concentration, of course.
This was the good stuff. It went by the name of Old Fifty-five.
Ricimer set both nebulizers on the projection table and stood waiting.
After a few momentias, Milt bustled in, giving the impression, as always, that he had hurried away from some very important task.
“Thrive the Administration,” he said with a puffy, breathless emission.
“Thrive the Administration.” Ricimer nodded toward the NH4 nebulizers. “Shall we?”
“Absolutely, Companion Arid.”
Ricimer handed a nebulizer to the receptor and took one for himself. The nebulizer was cold in his hand. He squeezed out a ceremonial whiff. It wouldn’t do to get drunk before reading Craft Orders. Milt atomized a more substantial puff and sniffed it in with a slurping sound. He’s always had a noisy nose, Ricimer thought. Milt could afford to be indifferent about such stuff when mixing with those he considered underlings. In fact, most DDCM officers were notoriously bad-mannered by force of habit.
“I’m glad you didn’t skimp on the important items,” Milt said. “This is a premier vessel, after all.”
“Thank poor Storekeep Susten,” Ricimer replied. “The one whom we’re about to hand her head on a platter.”
“Regulations are regulations. Can’t be helped.”
“I suppose not. But first things first.” Ricimer set down his nebulizer, and, after another stiff whiff, Milt did the same.
Craft Orders were encoded in Lamella, the computer brain of the Guardian of Night. “Lamella” was, in fact, the general name for all vessel-specific computers, as “Governess” was the name for the Administration general computer system common to all craft. It was an arrangement that was deliberately analogous to the Guardian’s dual nervous systems. Theoretically, each Governess system was an exact duplicate of the others, although there were often slight discrepancies and update mismatches. Each Lamella system was individualized for the vessel. Governess had the code key for the Craft Orders in Lamella. And Ricimer and Receptor Milt had to both be present to activate the order to pass that key on and open the instructions.
As an added safeguard and layer of Administration control, the reading of Craft Orders
also decoded the switching software on the drive mechanism and allowed the starcraft to engage the QEM and achieve superluminal speeds.
This complicated procedure was the reason Receptor Crossgrain Milt was still living at this point.
Ricimer lowered his customary close-minded shield and directly addressed Governess. This is Captain Sub-receptor Arid Ricimer. I hereby initiate activation of Craft Orders.
“Greetings, Captain. Half-key activated,” Governess’s treacly voice replied. “Standing by for Receptor Milt.”
But for the moment, Milt said nothing to the computer. He turned to Ricimer, leaned over the projection table in a beseeching posture. “Listen, Companion Arid,” he said. “I want you to know something before we go any further.”
This was unexpected. And irritating. Ricimer was now entirely alert. What did the receptor have on his mind?
“Yes, Receptor?”
“Will you please call me by my name for once, Arid? We’ve known each other since we were in our twenties.”
Ricimer controlled his annoyance at the request as best he could. “Very well. What’s going on . . . Companion Crossgrain?”
Crossgrain picked up the NH4 nebulizer, gave himself another squirt.
“That’s better,” he said. “You can be a stiff-necked fool, Arid. But I want you to know that I had nothing—nothing whatsoever—to do with what your . . . with what happened to your family.”
Ricimer stiffened. “All right,” he said. “I can only take you at your word. Companion Crossgrain.”
“I swear it.”
“Very well, I believe you,” Ricimer replied. “Can we get on with this now?”
But Milt wanted to have his full say, and he continued. “I got wind of the move on your Agaric sector just as it was happening. I tried to put a stop to the whole operation. Called in all the favors I could. But there was nothing I could do, because . . .”
“Because,” said Ricimer, with resignation. “Because.”
“She really was a Mutualist, Arid!” Milt spat the words out as if they were scorching to his nostrils. “Didn’t you know that? How could you not have known?”
Ricimer was quiet for a moment, gathering himself. He needed to remain composed now. This was battle, of a sort. He was a warrior. He was staring into danger, even if it only appeared as the puffed-up face of a mid-level DDCM operative.
“It doesn’t matter now what I suspected or did not suspect. What do the Craft Orders say, Companion Crossgrain?” Ricimer asked calmly. “I suppose you saw them back in port.”
Now it was Milt’s turn to be taken aback. He leaned back with a canny expression. He was smiling again. Not the friendly smile of friend. More the nasty flare of a predator.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“You’ve just told me the gist of them. I suppose I’m to be arrested?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“Relieved of immediate command.” Milt straightened. “Placed under my direct authority for the duration of the mission. I . . . negotiated for that option.”
“I suppose I should thank you, then.”
“You should. But I was right. You’re the best we have, Arid,” said Milt. He leaned across the table imploringly once again. “We need commanders like you for the completion of the Sol operation—and for all the campaigns of the future.”
“So, you and I will return to Sol.”
“No, you didn’t guess right this time, Arid,” said Milt. He was almost laughing. “Our mission is suppression of insurrection. We’re going to finish the Mutualists once and for all. We’re going to destroy the Agaric.”
Ricimer breathed in, breathed out in a wordless hiss. His neighborhood. Yes, the birthplace of Mutualism. But also an arm of the Shiro that housed almost one hundred million souls.
For a moment, he couldn’t remember where his children were.
Then it came to him.
“Agaric Mutualist Conspiracy Terror,” the official INFO-STREAM called it. The walls of his apartment spread inward as if poked by a giant stick. Exploded furnishings turned to shrapnel. His wife’s chest cavity bisected by a cabinet door. His son near the initial blast, seemingly untouched. His interior turned to an undifferentiated gel.
His daughter. Four cycles old.
Alive for a momentia, maybe longer.
Crawling toward her mother.
Leaving a trail of blood that told of her passage.
Her little hand stretching out to touch her mother’s body.
Not close enough.
Dying alone.
Unconsoled.
A mistake, said the in-government report he’d been shown. The report he’d been allowed to see by old Admiral Brand, who’d personally met him at port and conveyed the Sporata’s condolences. Faulty intelligence provided by a Mutualist double agent.
Nobody’s fault, really. Except the Mutualist slime.
Administrative error.
“What do you mean ‘destroy’?” Ricimer finally said. “It’s already been cleansed of reactionaries.” He took another breath. Clenched a hand until his palm hurt. Hold course. “There have been multiple cleansings of the Agaric.”
“You know what this vessel can do, Companion Arid,” Milt replied. The smile again. “This new weapon is potent beyond anything we’ve ever used before. The Mutualist cancer must be cut from the people. The wound must be cauterized.”
“I see,” Ricimer said. “We’re going to turn the Kilcher artifact upon the Agaric. Erase it from the sky with no warning.”
Milt nodded, an expression very similar to a human’s. “Yes, Companion Arid. That is the gist of our orders.”
Ricimer laughed. It really was a laugh. Of relief. He’d had so many doubts. So many second thoughts. Now those worries were taken away.
He’d made the right call, at the right time.
“What’s so funny, Captain?” Milt said, taken aback by Ricimer’s laughter.
Ricimer contained himself. Enough. Back to business. “Your superiors think I care?” he said. “Now that she’s gone? Why should I care what happens to that cursed pustule of a place?”
“That’s . . . good to hear.”
“This has become a meaningless conversation, Receptor. I will carry out my orders. You needn’t have abased yourself.”
“I . . . I did nothing of the sort.”
Ricimer smiled, spoke as gently as he could. “No, of course you didn’t. Companion Crossgrain, speak your part, please. Let’s get on with this.”
Milt stared at him a moment longer. Made a decision. Ricimer couldn’t hear it, but from the expression on Milt’s face, he knew Milt had sent his key to Governess. After the briefest delay, the surface of the projection table blistered with words. Ricimer gently pushed the ammonium nebulizers to the edge of the table, then reached down and stroked the reading blisters to release their vanilla-laced esters. He read his orders.
PROCEED FROM SHIRO SYSTEM D+SIRIUS. RETURN VIA LEO LOOP APPROACH PATH. PROCEED AT HALF SPEED TO SHIRO MYCELIUM ARC 7, POD 35.9.7.—
Arc 7. This was the giant causeway that connected the Agaric effusion to the rest of the Shiro habitat.
—SEVER POD 35.9.7 FROM MYCELIUM BODY EMPLOYING POINTBLAST TECHNIQUE ALPHA. ISOLATE POD 35.9.7 WITH GLEANED ARTIFACT K5055. EMPLOY SAID WEAPONRY TO DESUBSTANTIATE POD 35.9.7. EXIT VIA LEO LOOP. RETURN SHIRO PORTAL D-SIRIUS. NOTE 1: COMMUNICATIONS BLACKOUT IN EFFECT FOR MISSION DURATION. NOTE 2: VESSEL COMMAND TO BE CEDED TO DDCM RECEPTOR FOR DURATION OF MISSION AT RECEPTOR DISCRETION, ENFORCEMENT PROGRAM VERDICT 3. THESE DIRECTIVES PER BLAWFUS, SIRIUS SEC-COM ON T 1.4.2.3, 1946.
Blawfus had signed the orders—Blawfus who most recently had been shuffled out of sight as proconsul on long-occupied Deneb 2 C. Which meant that Sirius Armada Flag Commander Admiral Brand had been removed. Killed, of course, if he hadn’t taken his own life. So the politicals within the Sporata high command were making their move.
“Now you know,” said Milt. “I was so dreading th
is moment. I was afraid I would have to evoke Verdict Three protocols and have you arrested or worse. This is going so much better than—”
Ricimer drew his captain’s knife from its scabbard with a practiced sweep and plunged it into the receptor’s throat.
Milt started back in shock, and Ricimer let go of the knife’s handle. Milt spun around, headed for the hatch. Ricimer saw the knife tip protruding from the back of Milt’s neck. He’d made a clean strike.
“Lamella,” Ricimer said. “The gravity, please.”
For the first time, Ricimer breathed in the citrus voice of his vessel’s individual a.i. speaking aloud.
“As per our agreement, Captain.”
Ricimer felt the additional weight in his body immediately. The effect was like pulling g-force on an aerial flight, but he was not moving. The artificial gravity in V-CENT had suddenly tripled.
Ricimer was ready. He’d trained for this. Gravity malfunction was a standard emergency drill in all Sporata craft. Ricimer was already thin as a rail, and the extra weights he’d lifted for the past months had added the increased muscle he needed to operate in a high-gravity environment.
Milt, on the other hand, was not in such good shape. DDCM receptors had exempted themselves from the boring emergency-scenario training, and Ricimer doubted that Milt had ever experienced a gravitational tug this extreme.
In any case, Milt was overweight to begin with. Tripling his weight brought him down in a crumpling heap two steps from the closed hatch. His trachea severed, there was no way for Milt to breathe. He tore at the knife, but it was firmly lodged in his neck.
Ricimer could have left it like that. The receptor would die soon enough. But time was pressing, and he had so much more to do.
Ricimer straddled Milt and sat down on his back. He reached down and batted Milt’s weak grip from the knife’s handle. Ricimer grabbed the knife himself with two hands, both on the left side of Milt’s neck.
