Other than the sand, which actually did exist, the desert was an illusion conjured by his Oculenses, and it wasn’t nearly as vast as it seemed. It wasn’t anywhere as hot as a desert would be, either, though this section’s heating coils were located here, so it was warmer than elsewhere.
The Oculenses had conjured the mountains, too, as well as the lush plain he strode toward. As for the gleaming city straddling that plain…that was mostly real. Mostly. Its name was Cybele.
Not for the first time in the last thirteen years, Husher wondered how things had come to this—how he’d come to have fifty thousand civilians living on his warship.
You know how, he told himself, and that was true. Even so, he still couldn’t quite believe it.
In a time with so much talk of cutting the military, the idea of capital starships carrying actual capitals had seemed like the only way to avoid the cuts, even to Husher. They’d represented a way to expand military might that would be palatable even to the new Interstellar Union, who’d been bent on radical downsizing.
Husher himself had been among the most emphatic to make the case: when the tech underlying the micronet’s instant communication system had been found to endanger the fabric of the universe, galactic society had needed something to bind it together. And so the new supercarriers would serve more than just a defensive function as they patrolled the galaxy with their vast arsenals. Those same arsenals would also keep safe the cities aboard them, and the cities would in turn allow the giant starships to justify their own expense by turning them into roving economic engines.
The galaxy-wide exchange of news, ideas, and goods that the nomadic cities enabled had singlehandedly saved the military. But the cities’ existence also brought intense scrutiny to the actions of those commanding the warships carrying them. When engaging in battle had come to mean endangering thousands of galactic citizens, government oversight had intensified, and the ROEs became paralyzing.
A tiny figure standing in the sand up ahead caught Husher’s eye, and he neared it faster than he should have—such was the nature of the illusory desert, which had a way of distorting distance. At first he thought it was a real girl, who’d wandered out here alone. But as he drew closer, he saw that she was just as nonexistent as the desert itself.
Nevertheless, she frowned in his direction, though she remained completely motionless. He stopped for a moment, staring back at her. “I’m so sorry,” he said, before moving on. When he glanced back two minutes later, she was gone.
The Oculenses were one of the few technological gifts the Kaithe had been willing to bestow upon the galaxy’s other species, and the things had a limited ability to detect and interpret brain waves. It was an attempt at a noninvasive brain-computer interface, and usually it worked like it was supposed to. Other times, it picked up on threads from your subconscious and manifested them before your eyes. That wasn’t a pleasant experience, typically.
The Kaithe’s technological stinginess wasn't due to a lack of proficiency. During their isolationist days, the diminutive aliens had often been called “the children,” but that name had fallen into disuse after their immense strength became known. There was also the revelation that they had created humanity millions of years ago, with the intention of using humans as weapons of war. During the eons since, they’d come to regret what they’d done, and now they were staunch pacifists, flatly refusing to contribute any tech that would bolster military capability.
The Kaithe had, however, been perfectly willing to confer the ability to efficiently synthesize atmosphere in space, so that it didn’t have to be rocketed up from a planet at great cost. That had been the same advancement that had resulted in thousands of civilians living in the bowels of Vin Husher’s warship.
Of course, the citizens of Cybele didn’t characterize it quite that way. They referred to this part of the ship as the Womb, and on days they were feeling particularly grandiose, they called it the Womb of Civilization.
The desert sand transitioned smoothly into rolling, green plains overhung by a cloudless, sapphire sky. Like the desert’s sand, the grass of the plains was really there, as well as the soil it grew from—poured by the ton over the cold steel of the deck. Considering it existed inside a starship, this compartment was incredibly spacious, but the Oculenses made it look far, far bigger than it actually was. In reality, most of the city’s inhabitants occupied living quarters that were quite cramped. At fifty thousand people, Husher considered the city situated inside his ship to be extremely overpopulated.
He reached the outskirts of Cybele, first passing protein synthesis and hydroponics facilities, where most of the ship’s food was produced. That included the food for his crew, which certainly cut down on the number of supply stops he had to make.
This place does have its uses, he admitted.
Next, he passed row after row of cubic residences, all clean and tidy. At least, their Oculens overlays were clean and tidy. Husher knew that underneath those overlays, most of Cybele’s structures were drab and covered in dust. Persistent illusions were a great help when it came to ignoring the need for regular cleaning.
Everyone was free to take out their Oculenses, of course, but they rarely did. When someone installed an overlay—whether for their house or their body—everyone’s Oculenses forced them to see only that. There wasn’t an option to deactivate someone else’s overlay, even temporarily. Yes, you could leave your house without your Oculenses in, but that was now considered taboo, and anyway, there was a strong correlation between taking out your Oculenses and depression. That correlation was strongest in cities on capital starships like the Vesta, but it was fairly strong on planetary colonies, too.
As a high-ranking military officer, Husher did have the rare ability to turn off any overlay, for security reasons. But he barely ever took advantage of that ‘privilege,’ since he also found it depressing to look at Cybele without its makeup on.
Before long he reached Cybele City Hall; a great dot of a building made up of nested, concentric circles. Curiously, it didn’t occupy the city’s center, but a spot just off-center.
The real center of the city was reserved for Cybele University. According to Husher’s Oculenses, the campus structures loomed over the rest of the city, with white, gleaming towers keeping a watchful eye on all who lived here. In reality, Husher knew none of the buildings exceeded three stories.
He entered city hall, passing between identical burgundy plaques proclaiming the building’s function. As he made his way toward the council chambers at the center, he was required to provide his ID code at three different checkpoints on his way, despite that everyone on board the Vesta knew who he was.
Of course, for all they know, his appearance could be just another overlay. That thought almost made him chuckle. He doubted many citizens of Cybele were inclined to dress themselves up as him.
“Welcome, Captain Husher,” Mayor Dylan Chancey said in his usual warm tones from where he sat in his short-walled enclosure. It wasn’t immediately obvious Chancey was mayor just by looking at his seat—it resembled every other seat ringing the circular council chamber.
Chancey never did much with his overlay, other than ensuring it concealed most of his gray hairs. The man had a chiseled jaw naturally, as well as piercing eyes so brown they were almost black. Those eyes belied his mostly conciliatory demeanor.
The woman who spoke next, on the other hand, made ample use of her overlay. “We were starting to wonder whether you’d show up, Captain,” Penelope Snyder said, leaning toward Husher, which caused her cleavage to swell forward. Her belly top and silk pants would have put a peacock to shame, and a bright, unnatural blue shone through the black feathered mask she wore at all times. Gleaming waves of midnight hair spilled down her face to frame her perfect complexion.
Penelope Snyder was the president of Cybele University. Underneath her carefully assembled mirage, Husher knew that she carried at least forty pounds more than the overlay suggested, and also that she p
ossessed the wrinkles and gray hair that were the traditional hallmarks of being sixty. But with the magic of Oculenses, she could continue looking like this until the day she died.
“I had an unusual amount of paperwork to complete, today,” Husher said as he settled himself into the only empty chair. With that, he met Mayor Chancey’s gaze.
The man nodded. “Yes, I expect you did. Today could come to mark either the end of a long peace or a historical anomaly. But let’s waste no more time in beginning. Today’s meeting won’t follow the typical format, since the event that necessitated it certainly wasn’t typical. We’ll see to our more usual tasks at the next council meeting, so that we can keep Captain Husher away from his duties as briefly as possible.”
Husher nodded, folding his hands over his right thigh. “That’s appreciated, Mayor Chancey. Though I’m not exactly clear on the necessity for today’s meeting.”
Chancey looked around at the nine councilors—three humans, four Wingers, a Kaithian, and a Tumbran—before his gaze settled on Snyder. “Would you care to explain our concerns to the captain, Penelope?”
“With pleasure,” the university president said, smiling sweetly at Husher. “And I will try to stick to the mayor’s prescription for brevity, though as an academic I do struggle with that from time to time.” The remark brought a round of tittering from the other councilors. “To put it quite simply, Captain, we worry about whether you might be…well, prejudiced seems like a harsh word for this particular context. Biased, let’s say. We’re concerned it’s likely you carry an unconscious bias against the Gok.”
Husher shook his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Snyder’s face—at least, the digital fantasy she called her face. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said. “I took significant pains to ensure my actions followed the ROEs set out by the Interstellar Union.”
“That’s true,” Snyder said, nodding, her raven feathers gently waving. “Technically.”
“Technically?”
The mayor interjected. “What Penelope means to say, Captain, is that while your actions did satisfy the prevailing Rules of Engagement, they satisfied them in letter more than they did in spirit.”
“I’m still not following,” Husher said, trying not to growl. “If I can be frank, I already feel like the ROEs permitted the Gok warship to maneuver close enough to pose a significant danger to this ship.”
“Ridiculous,” Snyder said, drawing out the last syllable. “I’m sorry, Captain, but given the firepower you have at your disposal, that carrier was a gnat compared to you. Listen, here’s our issue with what you did: you could have easily given the order to disable the Gok ship rather than destroy it outright.”
“Ms. Snyder, if we’re about to go to war with the Gok—”
“But we have absolutely no evidence that a war is actually brewing, Captain. That carrier could have just as easily been acting independently from the Gok government. But thanks to your actions, we don’t know. The handful of Gok pilots you took prisoner certainly haven’t told us. They may not even be privy to what their captain’s objective was.”
Husher waited until Snyder was finished, unwilling to cut her off as she had done to him. “Again,” he said at last, “if we’re about to go to war, our position will be strengthened with one less carrier to—”
“Captain,” Snyder said, her voice climbing in pitch. “I would remind you of our mandate to act as an extension of the Interstellar Union in overseeing, regulating, and deploying the Integrated Galactic Fleet. This is exactly why shipboard cities are so often called the Wombs of Civilization. It’s our job to keep galactic civilization intact, by innovating, regulating, and sharing our successes with the rest of the galaxy for implementation everywhere. Despite what you might think, it isn’t warfare that we’re at the forefront of, here. No, Captain, we’re on the forefront of progress.”
Actually, I’d agree that we’re hardly at the forefront of warfare, Husher thought but didn’t say. Instead, he sighed, and said, “What do you require of me?”
The mayor cleared his throat. “We’d like you to undergo Implicit Association and Bias Testing, to investigate whether our fear about your attitude toward the Gok is warranted.” Chancey lowered his voice. “There’s a decent chance it might be, Captain, especially considering the unfortunate loss you suffered in association with the Gok.”
Husher felt his eyes widen. Suffered in association with…? The detached, clinical phrasing came nowhere close to describing what Gok had done to his family.
“When would you like me to take the test?” he managed to choke out through the shock he felt at the mayor’s remark.
“We’ll follow up soon with a time,” Snyder said, her smile once again plastered across her oval face.
Chapter 3
Military Applications
Ochrim hadn’t done much with his home’s overlay, but other than that, there wasn’t much to distinguish it from any other house in Cybele. Nothing to indicate that he was a mass murderer, certainly, or that he’d played a major part in shaping both Galactic Wars.
Husher rang the bell, and the Ixan let him in a few seconds later. “Can I supply you with a beverage, Captain?” Ochrim asked as Husher lowered himself into the alien’s favorite chair.
“Beer’s fine,” Husher grunted. I could certainly use it, after that meeting.
The alien returned holding two sweating bottles, and Husher accepted his with a nod.
“It always fascinates me to contemplate that humans and Ixa metabolize alcohol at similar rates,” Ochrim said, still standing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Husher said. “I’d drink you under the table before I even started to feel it.”
“Of course, Captain.”
“Why don’t you have a seat?”
“Because I don’t expect you visited merely to drink beer.”
“I came because your message said you have something for me.” Husher tipped the beer’s neck toward the couch across the room. “I need to sit for a few minutes.”
“Very well.” Ochrim settled himself onto the couch.
“I just came from city hall.”
“Ah.”
Another long sip from his beer, and Husher exhaled, long and slow. “After we won the Second Galactic War, I knew I’d have an uphill battle trying to ready our military for what’s coming. The new government wanted nothing to do with developing technology to search outside the galaxy for your species’ creators. Even so, I had no idea things would get this bad.”
“What happened at city hall?”
“They want me to take some test that’s supposed to find out whether I’m biased against Gok. I’m not sure how well I’ll do, considering I’m biased against anyone who fires on my ship.”
The white patches around Ochrim’s eyes broadened. “Would that happen to be the Implicit Association and Bias Test?”
“Yeah. That’s the one.”
“Ah. That procedure is riddled with methodological issues. A form of it was determined to be completely useless centuries ago, and not much about it has changed. The test is based on your response times, but one of the major problems is that it confuses the novelty response with bias. Since there aren’t many Gok aboard the Vesta, and other than Tort you don’t encounter them very often, the test is almost certain to find you ‘biased’ against the Gok.”
“Wonderful,” Husher said.
“After you fail it, they’ll probably recommend that you undergo Awareness Training, to purge you of your anti-Gok prejudice.”
“What’s that?”
“Awareness Training? Well, it’s intended to make you aware of your prejudices, which the test will prove you have, and then to help you overcome them. But Awareness Training has been found to achieve the opposite of its stated intent: studies show it increases prejudice.”
“Why are they using procedures proven not to work?”
“Well, perhaps managing your ‘bias’ isn’t actually th
eir primary goal. Do you still plan to undergo the testing?”
“I’ve already agreed to it. It’s not like I had much choice,” Husher said. He wished he was exaggerating, but he wasn’t—in the last year alone, two capital starship captains had been removed from duty for refusing to do what their city councils required of them.
Sighing, he stood, emptying the rest of his beer and placing the empty bottle on an end table. “I want to see what you’ve discovered.”
Ochrim also stood, though he made no other move. “I have to admit, Captain, that I’m becoming somewhat concerned about our activities.”
“Why?”
“Because the farther I progress with my work, the closer we get to tangible military advancements. Those aren’t viewed favorably in the current political climate, and I’ve gotten in significant… trouble…for contributing to them in the past.”
Eyeing the Ixan with raised eyebrows, Husher said, “I’m sorry, Ochrim, but are you under the impression that not sharing your findings with me is even an option?”
“I am,” Ochrim said holding up claw-tipped fingers to forestall Husher’s next remark. “It’s an option with consequences, but an option nevertheless. The question is whether the consequences of telling you what I’ve discovered are likely to be more or less severe than not telling you.”
“Right. Let me refresh you on the logic of your situation, Ochrim: this ship is the only place you’ll ever get to live in anything approaching peace. No other captain would even consider letting you step foot on their ship, and as you know from experience, planetary colonies don’t want you either.”
The alien lowered his gaze. “You’re right, of course.”
“I’m glad you recognize it. So let’s hear no more talk of refraining from sharing your findings with me, hmm?”
“Of course.”
“Good answer.”
Capital Starship (Ixan Legacy Book 1) Page 2
