by Sharon Lee
“Theo. I hear.”
“The ambassador approves of the gifts. He has taken no harm from ingesting his. We have no cause to doubt the ambassador’s goodwill, is that true?”
“Yes, Theo. The ambassador’s actions have been without threat.”
“The ambassador is not Korval, nor is this tree Korval’s Tree, precisely. Korval does not threaten you, the ambassador does not threaten you, the tree…is not something you need to fear or be jealous of.”
A pause, a long pause. She could feel something in the connection with Bechimo adjusting itself. Hevelin sat up straighter and that was close to what she felt, as if Bechimo had braced himself to attention the way a cadet might.
Bechimo sighed. Clearly, he’d been studying Joyita.
“Theo, I am not able to follow your decision-making at all times. There are mysteries in the way you intuit; there are decision trees appearing all at once, as if you think the third thought simultaneously with the first and the second, as if you form will and intent instantaneously. As your interaction with the crew adds complexity, so does your interaction with Hevelin. Now there is more complexity, Theo.”
She listened, feeling the cloud of his thought, and the struggle to place those thoughts linearly, so that she might understand…
“The tree is much younger than anyone else on board this ship and yet has a memory older, even older than the pathfinders. Clarence is chronologically older than the pathfinders, though they were born before I was built. Logic boggles, Theo.”
The same ideas were in her head, with nuance and overlaps, even with calculations flashing and fading, seeking to compare chronologies and maturity and…levels of sentience.
“Theo, I—you—we are the first. There are no other bonded captains. I, and we, are not merely an AI and a human working together, which has happened before and will happen again. We are—we are more. We are—unique.”
A pause, a long pause for Bechimo. She wondered if he’d cut in another voice circuit, added another one of the background timbres to speech. Could he be more real? He surrounded her already.
“Theo, how can I know what is dangerous any longer? You take risks, with yourself, with the crew, with us. How can I keep us safe?”
Theo smelled the pod in her hand, felt the comfort of Hevelin’s weight on her lap and the surety of ship sensors all in order…felt Bechimo’s wait states and felt his concern.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that being alive isn’t safe. We have to take risks; we have to make choices or we stop being alive, even if we haven’t died. Once a choice is made, it’s irrevocable. The only thing left is to make another choice.”
She sighed.
“I’m sorry. I know this is hard on you. The Builders should have told you that humans are…so very risky.”
Her pod, she noted, was ripe now.
She picked it up and held it in her palm. As the other had, it broke into sections.
It was every bit as delicious as its scent had promised.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bechimo
There was no need to warn each other that their quarters were monitored, their every word recorded, if for nothing more than to contribute to Joyita’s increasing fluency.
In addition, Win Ton had demonstrated some familiarity with the common sign. It was unlikely that he was conversant with their own private dialect—which might be decoded, of course. But some risks had to be taken.
Chernak and Stost therefore conversed rapidly and efficiently while they ate, deliberate fingering hidden within the motions of distributing and eating their food; subtle quirks of eyebrows and mouth adding emphasis, or decision—the whole abetted by the near telepathic understanding that existed between two soldiers who had been partnered since the creche.
Their course was laid in by the time they had finished the meal. They would continue to be patient; they would accept conditions with calmness and a show of goodwill. They would exercise double caution; they would each guard the other’s back; they would observe all and everything.
Implicit in the course was the acknowledgment of the captain and her crew as provisional allies, civilians though they were. They had no choice, after all, and more to gain from gentleness than from force. If it came about that the captain was unwilling to aid them in the completion of their mission, then it would be necessary to review tactics and implement new strategies.
As satisfied as it was possible to be under the circumstances, they cleared up the remains of their meal. Stost then went in search of Grakow in the certainty that the captain would wish to inspect him personally, to assure herself of his condition.
He had just settled the cat on one of the smaller upholstered chairs when Joyita spoke: “Pathfinders, Captain Waitley approaches.”
So warned, they straightened to attention, facing the main door, awaiting the captain’s entrance.
A brace of minutes passed. Chernak took a breath and centered herself, sinking into the stance. A proper Troop could stand at attention all day, if ordered. Some would say that pathfinders were hardly proper Troop, but even they might easily—
A chime sounded, sweet in the midrange.
Chernak blinked—and blinked again as Stost left his position at her side to cross the room to the corridor door and to put his hand upon the plate.
“Captain,” he said crisply, stepping aside to allow her to enter.
“Thank you, Stost,” she said and stepped into their quarters, fluid in her stride, and stringently centered, like a Troop walking point into unknown territory.
Chernak brought her fist to her shoulder.
“Captain!” she said, respectful of that stern focus.
“Chernak,” the captain answered.
Stost held his post at the door, which had closed once the captain had stepped inside. She had brought no such escort as would befit even the rank of civilian captain, leaving Chernak unable to decide if this omission was an insult or was meant, in some way, to comfort them.
The captain paused before Chernak, head tipped to one side, her body as thin and flexible as a shibjela; light yellow hair wisping around a pale face dominated by space-black eyes.
“Stand down,” she said. Her accent had also much improved over the sleep shift. “Stost, join us. We will sit together.”
“Captain,” said Stost. He moved, slowly enough to show respect for the edge of her, and taking care to keep within her line of sight.
The captain nodded and looked past Chernak. Given leave to stand down, Chernak turned to follow her gaze and was unsurprised to find Joyita’s image in the screen. Was it possible that he stood the honor of Captain’s Escort?
“I will assist with any communication difficulties,” he said, meeting Chernak’s eyes.
She showed him the soft fist on the left hand, which meant she had heard and understood, then turned back to the captain…who was sitting in the small chair next to Grakow, solemnly offering her forefinger for his inspection.
There was a pause while the cat appeared to weigh his worth as a member of a mercantile engineering crew against that of a civilian captain and commander of all nearspace. Before the pause lengthened into rudeness, he decided that he might condescend to accept her attention, and bent his head to touch his nose very lightly against her finger.
Stost sighed.
Captain Waitley turned to him with a smile.
“I am accustomed,” she said. “Cats march to their own orders.”
“Grakow held rank on the other ship,” Stost offered.
“Very proper,” the captain said solemnly. She leaned back into the corner of her chair. Perhaps she meant to seem at ease. Chernak, though, marked how her feet remained flat on the floor and her hands at ready. It would not do to make an unexpected move on this captain. Not unless they were prepared to take her and her ship.
To her right, Stost leaned back in his chair, reflecting the captain’s pose.
Chernak settled back as well, crossing her legs casua
lly and producing a small smile for the captain’s benefit. Civilians placed weight on smiles; she and Stost, as part of their interface duties, had therefore learned to smile in such a manner to inspire trust, rather than fear.
Captain Waitley’s eyebrows rose; she inclined her head gravely—and then smiled, very slightly, herself, as Grakow butted her arm with his head and pushed onto her lap.
He curled up, to the accompaniment of rusty purrs.
Captain Waitley smiled again, then looked up into their faces—first Chernak, then Stost.
“We traveled while you slept and are no longer in the location where we intercepted Orbital Aid Three Seven Zero.”
They had discussed this unsettling bit of information over the meal, but had only achieved even more unsettling questions.
The first among them was why translation had not wakened them. Experienced spacers that they were, they ought to have roused at the change of phase.
Which question led to the second—how long had they slept per the medical technician’s orders, and had those orders been enforced by a touch of something in the air? They were X Strain and largely immune to such tactics—but they were not perfectly immune.
Thirdly, where had the little captain traveled to and what did this sudden shift mean for their mission?
Chernak thought she might ask that third question—and almost instantly thought better of it.
Stost covered her tiny hesitation with a question of his own. “No salvage?”
Captain Waitley moved her head from side to side, then apparently realized that the gesture was lost upon them and spoke.
“No salvage. The new location is secure; a holding pattern while we make plans. I must ask questions, Pathfinders. Accurate answers will benefit all. Am I clear?”
“You are clear, Captain,” Chernak assured her. Grakow was still purring, curled as he was into a circle against the captain’s belly, nose tip covered by tail tip.
“Good. Where were you bound before glory overtook Orbital Aid Three Seven Zero?”
“Captain, we were bound, so our orders had it, to another universe,” Stost said and swept both hands out, encompassing suite, ship, and possibly the surrounding vacuum. “We assume that we have arrived.”
“Yes, we assume that, too. Joyita can provide you with the math. What were your orders, once you arrived?”
The orders had provided them a range of choices, since they had no idea what they might find or face, once they arrived in this supposed new universe. First…
“We were to rendezvous with what Troop had won through,” Chernak said.
The little captain tipped her head, frowning.
“Did others of the Troop win through?” Stost asked, leaning forward.
She looked at him, frown deepening; black eyes somewhat narrowed.
“Yes,” she said, “but…” She glanced aside, to where Joyita sat his station, and was seen to sigh before returning her attention to themselves.
“The others arrived some years ago, as this universe tells time,” she said. “Some hundreds of years ago. The situation…is complicated.”
“Hundreds of years?” Chernak interrupted, astonished and disbelieving at once. She took a breath…and centered herself.
“By the captain’s leave. All ships were to have been away and in transition at a certain hour, center-time. Our ship was one of many…”
“Yes…” the captain said slowly.
“Based on our observations made at the location at which you were recovered,” Joyita said briskly, “we have formed a theory. As you say, many ships lifted at once. Many ships transitioned at once. In addition, it is not unreasonable to suppose that the Enemy was expending great amounts of energy in its effort toward victory. All of these forces operating at once—this is, remember, a theory—produced a temporal fugue state that encompassed some of the evacuating population, while allowing some—even most—to arrive in the new universe promptly, though widely dispersed with regard to location.”
“And you believe that some ships—because of this temporal anomaly—arrived in the new universe much later than…most,” Stost said.
“Yes.” Joyita moved his head—chin up, chin down.
“Hundreds of years later?” Chernak repeated. “How could we have survived so long? The ship was—you saw the ship, Captain. It was nothing but shred, held together by memory.”
“The theory suggests that, while an object was caught within the fugue state, time…froze around it. Once released into the new, expanding universe, time began again,” Joyita said.
Chernak stared at him. Frozen. Eerily, it made sense. After all, the Enemy’s objective had been the crystallization of the old universe. Certainly, the Enemy would have exerted what efforts they might, to stop the Migration and win the war. With so many strange energies in play…
“You must have history,” Captain Waitley said abruptly. On her lap, Grakow muttered a complaint. “In order to have history, you must have language. We have a device which will teach you language quickly. You will choose who is first to learn—”
“Captain,” Chernak dared to interrupt. “We have orders. If Troop won through, then it is to them we—”
Captain Waitley held up a hand.
“You must have history,” she said again, firmly. “What other options are offered by your orders?”
Chernak hesitated. Stost did not.
“Captain, if there are no Troop, we are to offer our service to the ranking civilian authority. But, Troop, Captain: that is our priority.”
“Yes,” she said. “I understand. Joyita, please ask Clarence to escort—who will learn first, Pathfinders?”
“I,” said Stost, which was correct protocol. Juniormost took point when the risk was greatest, unless put aside by order of the seniormost. Stost had not given her the opportunity to issue the order, and so it would be Stost who risked his brain and his life on this device Captain Waitley would thrust upon them. If Chernak countered him now, she put his honor into question.
“Stost,” she agreed, not looking at him, lest he see her chagrin and think that she considered him unworthy.
“Clarence is on his way, Captain.”
“Good.”
She turned to Stost.
“You will be taught the Trade language, very basic, enough to begin. There will be texts, basic at first. You will require additional sessions with the device, to layer more information. Learning takes place as you talk and read. Practice is key. Am I clear?”
“Captain, you are clear.”
“Good.”
The chime sounded. Stost half-rose—and sank back into the chair as the door whisked open, admitting Clarence, with his easy face and air of command.
“First is?” he asked.
It was, Chernak thought, a relief to hear that Clarence’s accent was every bit as dreadful as it had been the last time they had spoken together.
Stost rose and Clarence grinned.
“Fine,” he said, and waved Stost toward him.
Stost, however, turned first toward the captain, saluted, and got a nod in acknowledgment. Only then did he obey Clarence’s summons.
They left the room together, the door closing smartly shut behind them.
Captain Waitley turned to Chernak.
“You will work with Joyita. He will have questions about your last locations, dates, and missions. Accurate information benefits all. Am I clear?”
The captain wished a debriefing; she wished in particular to know if the Troops she had taken onto her vessel were rogue. This was sensible. There had been…toward the end, when planets—when whole systems—had fallen under the Enemy’s assault…there had been those of the Troop who had broken discipline, forsaken honor, and preyed upon the very civilians it had been their duty to protect.
The Enemy…it was said that the Enemy was able to slip into a vulnerable mind and influence even a soldier to act contrary to honor.
Command had taken those rumors seriously. She and
Stost had been given protections, but as pathfinders, they were among the elite, as were planetary commanders and the captains of armadas. Ordinary Troop—there was no time. Ordinary Troop took what risks fell to a soldier and hoped his comrades were swift with grace, were it required.
“Captain,” said Chernak. “You are clear.”
* * * * *
Kara was sitting second. Her number six screen—bottom right—showed Theo and the two pathfinders, with Grakow on Theo’s lap. The commlink brought her the sound of voices, fluent and easy. There were words Kara, who had been sleep-learning Joyita’s dictionary, did not know, yet Theo, who had never been apt at languages, neither faltered, nor seemed at a loss. It would have been a puzzle, to be noted and shrugged away. However, there had been other small puzzles of behavior that had been accumulating since they had parted Jemiatha Station. It was not that Theo deviated from being Theo—not…quite, but…
She had, Kara thought, perhaps failed in all of her melant’is relative to Theo—copilot, crew member, med tech, comrade, and bed-friend. That was an uncomfortable thought, of itself. One wished to maintain Balance and to comport oneself with honor—and one was, in addition, genuinely fond of Theo.
Most assuredly, she had not explored this “bonding” as thoroughly as perhaps she should have done. She would rectify this error—just as soon as she was able to speak privately with Theo.
She felt a little better, having taken that decision. In Screen Six, Stost was speaking, carefully, so it seemed to Kara. Theo’s posture betrayed no alarm, nor any tension, beyond a focus of attention.
That was going well, then, she thought, and deliberately brought her attention to Screens One through Five, which displayed various images of their new location.
Bechimo’s former safe place had been strange, yet in some way beautiful, in Kara’s opinion. This new location—not quite so safe—as Theo had been very careful to say, several times…This bit of space was bleak and barren; forbidding, if not overtly dangerous. The sole planet was on the far side of its star, and Bechimo had situated them far from the ring of rubble which comprised most of Brulilt System, so they stood in no more danger of a rocky assault than any other spaceship going about its business in the near and far corners of the universe.
