Ancestral Night

by Elizabeth Bear

  I got Singer on senso and filled him in, including a dump of everything Cheeirilaq and I had talked about. Some things, you want to make sure your teammates have access to if anything bad should happen to you.

  My skin crawled. My palms were wet and cold. I tried to walk casually, as if I were engaged in one last idle wander through open spaces before returning to my departing ship.

  Did we ever get our clearance?

  I filed for it, Singer answered. And sent a reminder.

  The pit of my stomach dropped, adding itself to the unsettling sensations. But there was something else, too—a prickling along my body, as if a soft wind were stirring my vellus hair. And a sense of . . . weight. Of gravity. Of something watching, just as I had felt out by the Jothari ship.

  Oh, bloody Well, I said to Singer. I think the guy following me is one of the pirates. And I think they’re like me.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Screw this,” I said out loud, and stopped in the middle of the corridor. It wasn’t entirely deserted—there were people here and there—and the adrenaline singing in my veins was longing for a confrontation. I could have tuned it down—probably should have—but it felt good, and I have not always had the best record when it comes to deciding to turn off harmful but thrilling emotions.

  Haimey, Singer said, what are you doing?

  Dealing with a problem.

  Oh, for crying out loud. He didn’t think it at me, but I could feel his irritation, and also his recognition of the fact that meatforms did a lot of stupid things because of our meat, and the senseless clutter of our drunkard’s-walk evolutionary development didn’t help.

  Sure, I said, responding to his emotion rather than any words, and trying to keep my tone light. There’s no pointless code clutter still floating around in you.

  I do regular maintenance, he sniffed. But you wouldn’t be Haimey if you weren’t pugnacious.

  I laughed out loud.

  Conveniently, just as my stalker rounded the corner, and I got my first good look at them. At her.

  I don’t go in for the sexy bad-girl thing anymore, but . . . damn. The Republican pirate was charismatic in a way that reached right past all the rightminding safeguards on my emotions and hormones and made me want to get to know her better and bond and be best friends with her forever. You can turn off sex, and you can turn off romantic love—but it’s really hard to turn off all the human emotional responses to a powerful individual without also turning off your humanity.

  She looked like a planetary: not tall, but her body bulky with high-grav muscles, shoulders wide and sleeves of her coverall rolled up to show off sculptured forearms. She had a broad face with high, slanted cheekbones; coffee-dark eyes with a moderate fold; straight black hair cropped at the ear except for some longer locks, those dyed in fluttering streaks of red and gold.

  Her light gold complexion was dusted in cobwebs of silver.

  I gaped. She hesitated, but not as if she was surprised to see me. She glanced over her shoulder and then settled herself, arms folded, rubber-soled boots planted. Looked like she had gravity-style feet inside them, instead of afthands. I wondered if that meant she went planetside frequently.

  She looked me up and down. My skin prickled with observation as she performed the same kind of assessment on me as I had on her. She cocked her head.

  In a clear, light tone, she said, “I know who you are, Haimey Dz. You used to be a revolutionary.”

  “Suddenly,” I said, “a lot of folks are very interested in my past misdeeds.”

  “Misdeeds?” She shook her head sadly. “What happened to you?”

  “Is that what they say about me where you’re from?” I asked. “The Legendary Haimey Dz?”

  She laughed. “Not exactly.”

  “I’m flattered to find out I’m a topic of conversation anywhere. I’m a tugboat engineer. And you have the advantage of me.”

  It was a deliberate opening, to see what she would do. She surprised me.

  She stroked her chin with a thumb and forefinger, making her cobwebs sparkle. No wonder people were staring; the effect was distracting. She said, “My name is Zanya Farweather, and I’m a representative of the Autonomous Collective Republic of Freeports.”

  “You’re a pirate.”

  “If you’re a fascist, sure.”

  I am not entirely sure how I kept myself from rolling my eyes. God, she sounded like my first girlfriend. Only girlfriend, if I’m going to be honest. As if tyranny of the majority or a complete lack of social controls were somehow better than Synarchy.

  But she also flaunted her galaxies openly, and I hid mine under a layer of paint. And she had to know where they came from.

  This person is probably the same one who killed a whole shipful of Jothari.

  “What do you want?”

  “You have possession of something of ours.”

  “Something you stole, you mean.” From some people who murdered to get it.

  Her pretty eyes narrowed. “Pretty self-righteous, for an interstellar dumpster diver.”

  “Was that supposed to be an insult of some kind? Because if you’re trying to threaten me—”

  She sighed. Stepped back, and crossed her arms. The labile play of emotions across her face reminded me that I was probably dealing with somebody unrightminded, who had never had therapy or engaged in the kind of self-examination that makes you question and eventually understand yourself and your own emotions. The Freeporters were violently opposed to social controls of all sorts. Even—especially?—healthy ones.

  She was a reactionary force.

  I was scared of her.

  Connla and Singer were in my senso, and I could feel them there. Their support was encouraging. Singer was probably tuning me, too, to keep me from freaking the hell out. This was not a time when an atavistic panic response from my endocrine system would be useful.

  See above; sometimes the best thing you can do is just not thrash.

  “I’m trying to offer you a place,” she said, the muscles in her upper arms rippling as she tightened her grip on her own crossed arms. She was, I realized, struggling to control her temper. “Look, Haimey. You were very resourceful out there. We can use people like you. And like your shipmind, who we know has been requisitioned back to the Core and isn’t too keen on going. You’re in obligation trouble. Financial trouble,” she reinforced, stressing the archaic word. “We can give you freedom and keep you together.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “Your shipmind filed for a service extension. And it’s not like you and your shipmates brought back a lot of salvage to justify the outlay on this salvage mission. So”—she smiled and unfolded her arms to wave one hand airily—“come with us. Be free of the Synarche. Find out what it’s like to truly be yourself, without a bunch of hive-types telling you what to think and feel. You already threw off the clade mind control. Why not dispense with the rest of it for a while and experience an honest emotion or two? You never know . . .”

  The smile broadened, and even with my limbic system tuned way down I felt the shiver of her charisma in the pit of my stomach. “I heard a rumor you like bad girls.”

  It was all I could manage to keep from rolling my eyes. Maybe they hadn’t researched me that thoroughly, then. Or maybe their barbarian emotional logic actually led them to believe that such an appeal could trump my better judgment. And my rightminding.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’d sooner kiss Rohn.”

  I saw her attempt to parse what I was saying, the look of puzzlement creasing her flawless brow when the words didn’t impart meaning no matter what directions she turned them about in.

  I took a step back toward Singer’s airlock, feeling fiercely glad that I could just step sideways into it rather than having to drop or climb down a shaft. Giving Sexy Pirate Farweather the advantage of elevation was a risk I didn’t want to take. The second step, though, I felt—well, I felt heavy. Profoundly heavy, as if I were under a big change i
n v, or very tired, or both.

  “Sorry, kid,” Farweather said. “Can’t let you do that—”

  Oh dear, said a series of chirp and sawing noises. Is there a problem here, Synizens?

  A large green serrated limb poked out between us, barring the width of the corridor. Gravity returned to normal, and I shot Cheeirilaq a quick senso warning that things might get dangerously heavy for its physiognomy.

  Not that I was sure what either of us could do about it if she decided to squash the Goodlaw like a . . . well, like a bug.

  She’s not a Synizen, I sensoed.

  Cheeirilaq didn’t respond. It flexed its saw-toothed forelimbs as if stretching out a kink and pivoted its head so the light flashed off its faceted eyes.

  “Just asking directions,” Farweather said. She was already fading back down the corridor, and as she vanished around the corner I felt a moment of profound relief—and then an instant later I realized that my palms were clammy with sweat and my heart was pounding so hard my vision wasn’t stable.

  I thought you tuned me down, I accused Singer.

  I did, he answered. It seemed possible you might need all the adrenaline you could get, however.

  That was fair. I couldn’t get too mad at him for fiddling that, even without permission. Even with all the juice making me unstable.

  And as the immediate threat passed, I stopped trembling and managed to focus myself on Cheeirilaq. “Thank you for preventing my kidnapping, anyway. Is this going to put you in a bad position?”

  Its antennae did something that was probably a shrug, and it stridulated, No worse than I already am. This is still a Synarche station. Whatever [Habren] gets up to on the side. If anything happened to me, the constabulary would show up in force, expense of shipping resources to the end of nowhere aside, and they don’t want to risk that. What was that being insinuating about you, Haimey? I only caught part of the conversation.

  “I thought you knew my political secrets.”

  I know they exist. Your record is sealed.

  Which raised the interesting question of how Sexy Pirate knew about it.

  I thought you might be a Core agent, Cheeirilaq admitted. I take it I was mistaken.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  Why is it sealed?

  “I was underage,” I answered, turning to go. “And the courts decided that it wasn’t my fault.”

  CHAPTER 9

  I SLID INTO THE AIRLOCK UNMOLESTED but soaking in anxiety hormones to the point where Singer actually reached in through the senso and twiddled me down a notch for the second time in a few minutes. I was aggravated about it until the calm chemicals hit, and then I remembered that there was a reason why I’d let him talk me into giving him the keys. When I get really bad, I don’t always remember that the terrible, distracting atavism is something I can fix, or even that I ought to.

  Singer never forgets.

  He was living up to his name when I stepped inside, engaged in a four-part vocal round with himself that seemed to have something to do with the world’s largest Mexican restaurant, by which I deduced that it was an antique. Singer also has a thing about madrigals, which means that Connla and I know a lot of madrigals.

  “Did you get all that?” I asked from the airlock.

  “Enough of it,” Connla said dryly.

  One of the reasons we picked out our tug was that Singer liked the acoustics.

  He was singing softly enough that the cats weren’t hiding. I wriggled out of my station shoes and shooed the cats into their acceleration pods—well, I shooed Mephistopheles. Bushyasta, I just picked up, fitted her tiny little breathing mask, and plopped her in while she cracked one eye and purred at me; apparently doing anything else under quarter grav was entirely too much effort for anybody, and at this point I was inclined to agree. Connla was in the common cabin, finishing a set of pushups. I tossed him a towel and nearly missed because I’m terrible at arcs under gravity, but he snaked an arm out and caught it anyway.

  Singer brought his round to a perfectly timed and elegant close.

  Connla pulled a shirt on. “What does wheelmind say about debarkation?”

  “No clearance yet.”

  “We filed shifts ago. This begins to resemble intentional obstructionism.”

  “Yep,” I agreed. “They’re keeping us here. But if so, why did they give us a full load of fuel and consumables?”

  “We’re not the only crew who could use those,” Connla said ominously. “Singer, give me a direct patch to wheelmind? And to Colonel Habren, if they’re available. But the AI is what I really want.”

  “You have it.”

  Connla had long legs, and it only took him a couple of bounds to make it into the command cabin. I was a little behind him, and dropped into my acceleration couch without anybody having to mention it. Singer’d stretched a film across the gangway. We both had to walk through it to get from the aft end of the tug, so I had a little bit of breath protection. I looked through it at my painted hands as I settled my harness, and wondered if it would be enough. Not being able to see the webwork of the Koregoi senso on my skin seemed abruptly wrong and worrying.

  Connla took a deep breath and put his most professional voice on. “Wheelmind Downthehatch, this is Salvage Tug Terran Registration number 657-2929-04 requesting immediate leave to depart.”

  “Request pending,” the station AI said.

  Connla started the EM drive. “Can you give me a reason for the delay, wheelmind?”

  “Stationmaster Habren would like to speak with you before you depart.”

  “Our exit flight plan has been filed for five shifts, wheelmind. Please advise if there is an error in it that requires correction?”

  “No error,” the wheelmind replied. It had a typically musical AI voice, in a higher register that would cut through noise. I wondered what pronouns it liked.

  “Definitely,” Singer said, just for the three of us, “being stalled.”

  “Please stand by for transmission from Stationmaster Habren.”

  This is being designate [Colonel][Habren]. Salvage tug 657-2929-04, please stand down engines. You are not cleared to depart.

  “Reason?” Connla said, shortly.

  Singer’s hull resounded with unexpected impact like a steel drum. I jumped against the restraints, a moment of panic confusing my reactions before it came under control and I identified the sound. Someone was hammering with heavy fists or some other resilient object on the stationside door of the airlock.

  The deep voice of the symbiote-infected pirate, sonorous and trying not to sound irritated, boomed through the intercom. “Just hold up a min! I only want to talk to you!”

  Connla glanced over at me.

  I shook my head. “There’s your reason.”

  Wheelmind’s voice broke in again. “Salvage Tug designation 657-2929-04, please be aware that you are incurring resource obligation by refusing to stand down. The air you are breathing belongs to somebody else.”

  “Void and Well,” Connla cursed. The tug shivered as Singer increased the power to the EM drive.

  We could try to pull ourselves loose using that, but would probably just wind up screwing up Downthehatch’s orbit in a lot of annoying ways that would be time-consuming and irresponsibly resource-expensive to fix and which we would incur obligation for. While staying, ourselves, stuck right to it. We could try to blow the docking bolts, but that risked damaging Singer’s airlock—and spaceworthiness.

  Connla snapped, “Wheelmind, this is Salvage Tug Terran space ship registration number 657-2929-04, advising that if you do not withdraw the docking bolts, we will have no choice but to engage our white drive.”

  I gaped. We might survive it, being safe . . . ish . . . inside our AW bubble. The station—

  The loss of life would be extreme, as whatever bits of the station extended into Singer’s white bubble were suddenly dropped into the universe next door. We’d be stuck with a big chunk of space station attached to our do
cking ring. The wheel . . . would be stuck with a great, gaping hole.

  I was still reeling with the enormity when Singer’s hull vibrated gently with the scrape of withdrawing docking bolts, and we drifted free. Vibration doesn’t carry in a vacuum, so the pounding cut off instantaneously, and in the immediate silence that followed, Connla said, “Can’t follow our filed flight plan. I’m going to have to live-stick this. Haimey, if your passenger notices any obstacles before I do, I’m sure we’d all appreciate a heads-up.”

  A patter of light impacts rang through the hull—not dangerous, not high mass and not high velocity. The shower of particles and debris shot past us, streaking by the windscreen, glittering as they turned. I whipped my head around reflexively, which was ridiculous, but the lizard brain has its own protocols.

  Senso and Singer pivoted my vision to the rear of the ship. Senso showed me a big human or close analogue standing framed in the open airlock door. The human had dumped the lock, blowing out into space after us whatever small supplies and bits of things we hadn’t yet loaded and stowed.

  I hoped we hadn’t just been pelted with anything important.

  The human figure was Farweather.

  I didn’t know how I knew, because she was anonymous in a heavy-duty vacuum suit, but I knew it like I knew the back of my hand. Better, my own hands having become fairly alien to me of late.

  Behind Farweather, the glossy orange-red of the decomp door showed brilliantly. She was silhouetted against it in the pale decomp suit. How she’d held her position against the outrush of air I couldn’t imagine.

  Or rather, I couldn’t imagine—but I knew. Because my parasite felt the shift in mass, the way Farweather linked herself to the structure of the wheel, and the way the station’s rotation faltered and its orbit began to adjust to compensate. She was suddenly massive enough that the wheel just . . . stuck to her.

  Its rotation was whipping her out of sight. I breathed a sigh of relief, imagining Farweather glowering through her face screen.

  I said, “Punch it.”