Supernova

by C. Gockel

  Noa said—no, thought, “Way to show our cards, Carl.”

  Carl scratched his rump in her general direction.

  Volka could barely focus. From their advisors and the troops, hope soared with so much force she felt she might be swept into the air.

  “It has been a very trying day for you,” Lia said.

  “We have much to discuss,” Sasha said, “but perhaps you need to settle in a bit first.”

  Noa began to demur. “That’s not—”

  “Yes,” said James. “We would appreciate that. I am running low on power.”

  The advisors and the president and his wife beamed at James and Noa. “Of course, of course!”

  Sixty’s eyes slid toward James, but then caught Volka’s own gaze. Her eyebrows rose. James couldn’t need power, Sixty didn’t, and he was heavier than James.

  “Please, right this way,” Sasha said, holding out an arm between the advisors who parted like the Red Sea and the crimson lines of troops. “Shissh and Carl, Ivan has told us about you both.” There was warmth and worry behind his words. Had Ivan triggered their telepathy—or empathy—as Carl had triggered Volka’s?

  “We wish he were here,” Lia added. “It has been a trying time for all of us.”

  Volka’s heart thudded in her chest, too fast, too forceful, and in time with Lia’s own. She thought about the counselor ship they’d shot down.

  “Volka?” 6T9 touched her arm, and she realized she’d remained frozen in place, transfixed by the thoughts and emotions of those around her. Carl had already started walking down the aisle, but everyone else was waiting on her. “Thank you,” she managed to say.

  As she walked, she felt the troops trying not to look at them. She sensed no deception whatsoever, just a sincere desire that they be happy, that they stay. They were wanted. They were loved. It should feel beautiful, but she couldn’t help thinking of a beautiful flower on Luddeccea that lured nectar pterys with its lovely scent and petals … and then captured and ate them.

  Slipping on a woolen sweater their hosts had provided him, 6T9 looked out the window of the guesthouse. He could see the presidential mansion past a few oak trees, over the tops of the prairie grasses. Like the house they resided in, the style of the place was a little like an English Tudor, but instead of thick straight beams of wood filled with white mortar, there was dark brown mortar supported by wave-shaped beams of titanium. The wave shape allowed the beams to take advantage of the inherent strength of an arc and were thinner than they’d need to be otherwise. They also gave the normally brittle metal more flexibility; the beams had give, like springs. The house had deep awnings, and typical Odessian titanium shingles—lightweight protection from solar radiation.

  There was a curving gravel path between the guesthouse and the presidential mansion. Movement along it caught his eyes. He blinked … and saw a few wandering goats, sheep, and some chickens.

  A holo flicked on in Volka’s room, and the voice of a Senator from System 3, muffled by his door and Volka’s, whispered through its speakers. “System 11 can’t even feed itself. There is no need for violent reprisals. They’ll open their gate soon enough.” An announcer’s voice then said, “In other news, the artist who was formerly Venus de Willendorf—”

  The channel changed to music—drums, and a chanting song in a language he didn’t know, accompanied by a flute.

  Turning away from the window and the curious sight of a herd of livestock on presidential grounds, he surveyed his room. By Galactic standards it was … rustic. The wavy titanium beams were a feature in the inner as well as outer walls. The ceilings had arched titanium beams. The floor was polished cement in a light gray. There was a wool rug with scenes of Odessa from orbit, the gate, and their sun. The furniture was a mix of the ever-present titanium, but also wood, an expensive commodity on a newly terraformed planet. The room and furnishings might be the height of Odessian luxury.

  He exited his room via a door he had to open and close with his hands. Taking the few steps to Volka’s room, he remembered the words of the man who’d shown them in. “We know you are unmarried, and that the admiral is a true weere. We presumed you’d want separate rooms, but if we’re mistaken, please let us know.”

  He’d said the words “True weere” with reverence and looked at 6T9 with reverence, too, as though his association with Volka alone was a reason to look up to him. He’d noticed that with his distant, powerful processors. His local sex ‘bot systems had almost made him say, “Oh, we prefer to sleep together,” but FET12, following on their heels, had said, “They do sleep separately.”

  At Volka’s door, he lifted his hand to knock, but received a ping from James over the ether. Pausing, 6T9 answered silently, “Aren’t you busy powering up, James?”

  There was a slight rush of electricity in the part of his skull that received ether signals, but no data was exchanged. For a few seconds, he was very aware of that “silent” electrical charge.

  “Sure, 6T9.”

  More seconds of charge without data followed. The music in Volka’s room faded and was replaced by a familiar announcer from Sol System Interstellar News Network, her voice muffled by only one door. “System 11’s inhabitants have long been considered superstitious, and many experts believe that superstition is what compelled them to take these unprovoked and murderous actions against the counselor ship …” The channel switched—or the volume was muted—and 6T9 was aware again of the dataless connection.

  “James, are you all right?” 6T9 asked, remembering the joking references to James’s “death wish” at the habitat ring.

  “I’m fine, but Noa hasn’t gotten any sleep in over twenty-four hours. She’s asleep now, and I’ve already told Voy that we’ll skip dinner so she can sleep until morning.” An image transferred over the ether: Noa, with a dark arm around Carl Sagan, curled into a tight golden ball beside her.

  “Thanks for letting me know,” 6T9 replied.

  The electrical charge in his brain did not cease. From behind Volka’s door came another announcer, this one unfamiliar. “This is Elaine Howl from Odessa Live. We’re interviewing Olek Longtooth, a maintenance worker on Gate 11. Tell us what happened when the Counselor ship arrived on Gate 11.” A man’s voice, older, rough, and unrefined, said, “People started bendin’ over, throwin’ up. Not any of the for-ners. Just us locals. Can’t describe the smell. It was terrible. Made my ears curl, and my hair stand on ends.”

  The announcer said, “But how could you have smelled it when the ship never docked?”

  The maintenance worker replied, “Don’t know. Just know I did. My son, even on Odessa, he smelled it too, lots of my family did! Glad the president shot that ship to bits!”

  A commercial for chicken feed came on, a man declaring, “Have you started your Victory Flock?”

  “James?” 6T9 whispered silently across the ether.

  James’s voice poured into his mind. “It would be good if we could stay here for a week or so. Orion and I have contacts in Intelligence who aren’t compromised. Noa has connections in Fleet. We can coordinate more easily with them from here without having to worry about Shissh getting hungry. I don’t know what Voy wants; Carl won’t tell me anything except that the Odessian government isn’t an immediate danger—”

  “Whoever killed Ivan is.”

  “Yes,” James replied. “But we’re not going to do much better than this at the moment. At least Gate 3 and whoever else was behind the attack can’t easily order reinforcements sent here with the system closed off.”

  6T9 had to concede that point.

  James went on. “6T9, whatever Voy proposes, don’t turn it down out of hand. Give us a chance to regroup.”

  6T9’s Q-comm flashed. James’s suggestion was logical. Still, he felt like there was more. There were other places in the universe where they could connect to the ether and conspire with their contacts. Technically, they didn’t need ether at all. They could connect directly to Gate 1 from anywhere in the univer
se via Q-comm, and Gate 1 could contact just about anyone within ether distance. Granted, feeding Shissh could be a problem.

  “6T9?”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  The ether connection surged, and he imagined James smiling. “Don’t let Volka make any idealistic declarations that get us kicked out and up, at least for a little while.”

  Knocking at Volka’s door, 6T9 said, “I’ll try, but no promises.”

  The connection ended, and 6T9 was left with the sensation of there being data he’d been denied. But then Volka opened the door, and his sex ‘bot operating system took over.

  Volka sat with Sixty, Voy, and Lia on the patio of a restaurant situated beside a picturesque little duck pond. Pond and patio were shaded by immense trees—they were called “willows.” The waiter had assured them that the eggs, duck, and fish they’d had for dinner were from the very same pond; the carrots, apples, and sweet potatoes all from nearby. It was the sort of upscale restaurant that existed in Luddeccea’s New Prime—at least from what Volka had seen from Silas’s magazines, except everything on the menu was wolf friendly—no garlic or onions, no chocolate—and the building was the same peculiar dark mortar between shiny wavy beams. They had the patio to themselves, but inside silverware clinked, tables were full, and she occasionally caught glances and smiles in their direction.

  It was the kind of place Volka didn’t go—and if she did go, people didn’t look at her like a hero, a savior. It gave the evening a surrealistic quality. A beautiful place, beautiful clothes, grand people being polite, and Sixty giving her surreptitious smiles.

  Sixty looked terribly handsome. He was wearing a wool sweater in a delicious shade just a little darker than crimson, dark gray trousers, and fine leather shoes all provided by their hosts. The clothing fit him perfectly, making him look … well, perfect. The soap in the guesthouse was all unscented—the better to smell Sixty. He had a scent that was engineered to be seductive to the largest swathe of humanity, and it was seductive. Their hosts, she felt, had made him part of the temptation of the place, part of the trap. And maybe it was working. Her lips were still sore from kissing him earlier. She touched the pocket of her dress and felt the familiar shape of her hormone suppressors. She’d almost felt like she’d forgotten to take them, but she’d double checked, and it wasn’t that. It was just … Odessa.

  Between kisses, he had confessed to her, that, “Although I am not programmed to have preferences in age or body types, it makes me happy to see you appearing healthy.” She supposed she did look healthy. There had been beef broth waiting for her in her room, all the beauty products in her bathroom were friendly to sensitive weere skin, and there had been oil for her nails. The clothing fit her perfectly; that was normal for the Republic where machines could make things to order in minutes, but the fabrics were exceptionally fine. If it weren’t for the fact she wasn’t sure of precisely what the Odessians wanted of her, she would feel fine … or not. She saw flashes; she knew they wanted the Skimmers and her and Sixty by extension, but for what exactly? She tapped a finger on her armrest.

  President Voy—Sasha—was saying to Sixty, “Our university doesn’t get the credit it deserves. It has one of the most advanced Genetic Modification Departments in the galaxy.”

  Volka’s ears perked. All evening, Sasha and Lia had been telling them about all the wonders of Odessa and System 11, a not-so-subtle sales pitch, but she sensed this was special. Sasha was setting Sixty up for something here. He was baiting a hook.

  Lia smiled, sweetly and mercenary; or maybe the smile was sweet, and the woman’s emotions were mercenary. Volka couldn’t tell.

  Lia was not just a wife and mother; she was a Doctor of Medicine and had a Ph.D. in genetic engineering. At this delicate setup, Lia took over the conversation as easily as a ball player taking a pass from a teammate. “Unfortunately, our ancestors' first attempt at engineering themselves to withstand Odessa’s environment resulted in unstable mutations.” This was said with genuine sorrow. She glanced at Volka. “I fear that the Luddeccean weere are maybe … disadvantaged … though I hope it is not so.”

  Volka was trying to appear the admiral, sitting up straight, keeping her ears perked, remembering everything she knew about table manners, but she dropped her fork, and her ears curled. “Yes … ah, yes.” Luddeccean weere suffered from horrible mutations. Canines that didn’t fit their jaws, legs designed for upright locomotion paired with backs designed to walk on all fours, and hands curled like claws with thumbs that weren’t quite opposable. She hadn’t seen any of that here.

  Lia’s own ears curled. “I am sorry to hear that.” She touched her lips with her napkin and wondered to herself if Odessa might be a refuge for Luddeccean weere who wished to return … not that they had enough food for their own …

  Sasha squeezed her hand, and Lia’s ears came forward, and she said to Volka, “We’ve had to become the best at genetic engineering to repair the harm we did ourselves. As a result, we have access to technology and techniques not available in most of the outer systems.” She glanced at Sixty. “For instance, we have gametosynthesis.”

  Sixty had been smiling genially, but at that word, his smile dropped.

  Sasha added, “It’s not just a procedure for the very rich here. Too many of our population suffer the effects of multi-generational irradiation, so we make it available for all our citizens.”

  At those words, Sixty’s face lost all expression. He looked like he wanted to kill, or perhaps, that he just wanted. Volka had no idea what they were talking about. Sasha and Lia were just reveling in the fact that Sixty was interested in whatever they had offered, and Volka had had enough. “I realized you’re very invested in us becoming citizens, but I’d like to know what exactly you see our role being here.”

  Lia’s ears folded submissively, and it wasn’t feigned. The couple’s eyes slid to each other, and then they looked at Volka. The reverence in their eyes was disconcerting. Sasha said, “The Republic will fall, is falling, and there is nothing our small system can do about it. We have felt the danger we are facing—”

  Lia said, “Many of us are empathic … not true telepaths …. But the presence of the Dark in our System caused a wave of fear that manifested in many of our people taking violently ill. Even after we shot the damned ship down, it persisted.”

  Sasha’s hair bristled, and Volka smelled his fear. “Our hospitals filled. We feared the infection was unleashed, but The One tell us it was just an empathic wave that swept from our station workers to their families planetside.”

  Lia snarled. “The Republic doesn’t believe that the Dark is a threat. They are wrong.”

  “We cannot protect the galaxy, but we can protect our home,” Sasha said. “And this home can be yours. With your help, System 11’s safety is guaranteed. It’s true that we aren’t self-sufficient, but we’ve begun aquaculture in our system’s second planet. We’ll achieve self-sufficiency within a year, two at the most. Until that time, you can help us bring grain from the unincorporated systems—”

  He continued to outline a plan, and whether he knew it or not, he tugged at the waves between them. If Volka wasn’t as adept at manipulating the waves, she might have been dragged into his vision. Instead, she found herself growing more and more annoyed. He finished by saying, “We’ll be as a city on a hill.”

  Volka’s ears flicked in irritation at the blatant appeal to her religious tradition. It was, admittedly, their religious tradition, too, though Odessa’s brand of The Three Books wasn’t as fundamentalist.

  Her ears flicked again. Far off in the Republic, her captains’ frustration at being sidelined from the fight was seething across the waves. Sasha and Lia wanted Sixty and Volka to abandon her captains’ worlds when her captains were willing to fight and die for them.

  Sasha and Lia drew back in their seats. The waves withered with their apprehension, the sense they may have failed.

  Volka gave them as gracious a smile as she could manage,
though it probably was quite thin. “I thank you for your hospitality. However—”

  Sixty grabbed her hand. “—this is a momentous honor you offer us. We are relieved to find others who share our convictions. The Dark is dangerous. It cannot be ignored. Still, we must discuss this.”

  Volka looked at him in alarm. She almost protested, but then he added, “We do have allies in the Republic to consider.”

  Sasha wanted to jump out of his seat and shout, “Bring them here! They are all welcome!” But Lia put a hand on his arm, and he decided it might be better to know a little more about those allies before he made such an offer.

  Volka’s ears twitched, wishing for once that she could read Sixty. He wouldn’t just mention their allies and then toss them aside. He was planning something; she just didn’t know what.

  8

  Admiral on a Hill

  System 11 : Odessa

  6T9 stood with Volka beneath the awning at the entrance to the guest house, their backs to the door. The president and his wife bowed to them. 6T9 returned it immediately. Volka was slower.

  Wishing them well, the couple made their way to their home along the gravel path, prairie grass rising beside them, sometimes taller than their heads.

  When they disappeared around the bend, 6T9 opened the door. Ears flicking, Volka strode in and then said, “I know you don’t really want to give up the fight against the Dark and hide here.”

  6T9 tilted his head. That wasn’t precisely what Sasha had offered. He hadn’t proposed giving up; he’d proposed retreating to System 11 and keeping it safe. “I don’t believe that the Republic is lost, as Mr. President does.” He narrowed his eyes. “He does believe that, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, very sincerely.” Volka’s shoulders fell. She said it as though that was a disappointment. 6T9 was just relieved the couple had been being honest. Peeling off her knee-high boots, Volka paced from the foyer into a rustic but well-appointed sitting room.