Tales: The Benevolence Archives, Vol. 3

by Luther M. Siler

  "I think Grond's never going to let us forget," Brazel said.

  "Not a chance," the halfogre said over the comm. "Get up here. We're being chased."

  "Must have taken longer to walk down the hallway than I thought," Rhundi said, heading for the cockpit. "How good of a shot are you?"

  "I can manage," Brazel said.

  "Take the belly gun, then," she said, pointing the way. "I'll go copilot with Grond. Good luck."

  * * *

  Rhundi was comming him again before he'd even managed to find his way into the belly gun. "There's some legit local authority back there," she said. "And one or two ships that look like private security. Right now we're focusing on getting away. Don't kill anyone unless you have to. They're not shooting—"

  Her transmission was cut off by the sound of laser fire richocheting off the shields. The boat rocked, Brazel nearly losing his footing as he scrambled into the belly gun.

  "Are you about to say never mind?" he shouted over the comm.

  "Shoot the blue ones!" she said. "Those are the private security. The locals are already falling back."

  "Already?"

  "Probably called off by the mercs," she said. "We're going to be out of their jurisdiction pretty soon anyway. This boat's faster than you think. Keep us alive while Grond and I outrun them."

  Brazel dropped into his seat, which adjusted to his size and strapped him in automatically. Luxurious, he had time to think, and then the outer hull of the boat went transparent and combat diagnostics started popping up over anything the AI thought might be a plausible target. There weren't just "one or two" private security skiffs chasing them, there were four, two just barely entering sensor range and two that were actively firing on them.

  "Don't kill anybody, she says," Brazel muttered as he opened fire. "Come on." It was much harder to shoot at someone if you didn't want to kill them. That usually meant taking out engines rather than, say, the cockpit, or blowing a wing off, and then hoping that you just disabled the engine rather than making it explode. And in this case, they were being chased, so the engines were on the wrong side of the boats he was shooting at. He settled for spraying fire at whatever mercenaries were closest, trying to disrupt their attack patterns and keep them on their toes. The shields on the lead ship were overloaded quickly, and a few more shots blew a small hole in the port side. That'll do, he thought. With no shields and an inconvenient hole leaking vital atmosphere that one was probably out of the fight. He briefly lost sight of the other lead skiff as Grond threw them into a spin, then got lucky— or not, maybe?— and clipped a wing, sending another of their attackers into a tailspin of their own.

  Hopefully she can still land that thing, he thought. The other two were far enough out that a missile lock was possible but laser fire would be wasted. He locked on to both but didn't fire, hoping that the sirens in their ears screeching about the lock would be enough to convince the mercenaries to break off the assault.

  And then he had no more time to think about it, as Grond dropped the boat into tunnelspace and their pursuers went away. The hull went opaque again— watching as you sped through tunnelspace was pretty for a moment or two, but then tended to produce excruciating headaches— and Brazel unstrapped himself from the belly gun and climbed back out. It was possible for someone to follow them, with a bit of luck and some good guesses, but boat-to-boat combat couldn't happen in tunnelspace unless both boats jumped on the same vector and at the exact same time. For the moment, they were safe.

  * * *

  "Nice flying," Brazel said to Grond upon finding the halfogre in the cockpit. He shrugged.

  "All I had to do was outrun some locals. I feel like we got off pretty easy," he said. "We've had more trouble stealing less stuff in the past."

  "You think they let us go?"

  "Nah," Grond said, relaxing back into his seat. "I think Paschal genuinely thought anybody trying to steal the bear would be caught in the house. The security he hired was supposed to detain a couple of amateur thieves, not win a dogfight. Once you took the first one down the fight went out of the rest of them awful quick."

  "Let's make sure we aren't being tracked," Rhundi said. "We're supposed to fire that stupid bear into a star, so I don't think anyone's going to be upset if we tear it apart first. You got a course set?"

  "Yeah," the halfogre said. "Dropping out of tunnelspace six times at random intervals to change direction. We'll end up plenty far away, and the only way anybody's gonna catch up to us is if they drop a blockship on our flight path. It'll be a couple hours before the first drop-and-spin. We've got time to take your bear apart."

  He grinned, an evil glint in his eyes. "Or sew him back up again, if you want to keep him. I mean, the three of you have such a history together and all. I'm sure your kids will love him."

  Brazel, deciding not to respond, decided he was glad that gnomes were too furry to blush. Rhundi shot Grond a dirty look and left the cockpit.

  Grond waited for a moment longer.

  "Oh, go ahead and follow her," he said.

  Brazel scurried out of the cockpit.

  * * *

  Rhundi was merrily tearing the bear apart by the time he found her. There was actually tiny tufts of cotton— or whatever it was the bear was filled with— floating in the air in a gauzy cloud around her.

  "Scanned it for nanocams," she said over her shoulder. "Nothing. Can't find anything hidden in the stuffing. I'll give you two guesses where the trackers are."

  "Eyes?"

  "Eyes," she said. She tossed one of them to him. There was a thin wire, probably some sort of antenna, poking out of the back of it. "They're both live. Transmitting right now, although the signal's not going to get anywhere so long as we're in tunnelspace. Veldt was right. He not only put his bear on a pressure sensor, and wired his house to protect it, he replaced both of its eyes with transmitters."

  "Are you starting to wonder if we'd get more money by giving it back than we are for stealing it?" Brazel asked. "This thing's clearly really important to Paschal. Maybe he wants it back more than his wife wants to hurt him by stealing it."

  Rhundi thought about it for a moment. "I have a better idea," she said. "How long do you think it'll take to clone the signal these things are sending?"

  "I could probably pull it off, yeah," he said. "Couple of hours, with the right electronics. Which I'm guessing you don't have on the ship?"

  "No," she said. "Do you need to physically have the transmitters to copy the signal?"

  "Now that we know they're transmitting? No," he said. "They're just sending a signal that says I'm here, basically, right?"

  "I imagine," she said. "It's a repeating signal. He just needs a receiver tuned to it."

  "Yeah, I can pull that off," Brazel said. "Just need the hardware."

  "Okay," Rhundi answered. "We're gonna destroy these two, just like we said we would. But we're gonna keep the bear. And we're making half a dozen or so more transmitters. We decide we need some money down the road, we strap a pair of them onto a drone ship and see what happens next."

  "You're saying we," Brazel said.

  She looked him over. "Yeah," she said. "I am. You do good work. Is there a problem I need to know about?"

  "Not a bit," Brazel said, suddenly feeling warmer. One more source of income was great. His debts paid off, a new boat free and clear … and Rhundi.

  Maybe he'd eventually get that date after all.

  Rebirth

  The universe blazes white.

  The light is everything, and bores into his brain like a physical force. He tries to fight it, to cover his eyes, to hide from the shining. Nothing changes.

  I can't move.

  There is nothing but the light. No sound, no sensation at all other than pressure from the whiteness. He tries to move his arms again, to blink, anything to stop the light for a moment. Nothing happens. There is only the light, for what seems like forever.

  And then it stops, and there is only darkness.
>
  * * *

  After a while— it could have been hours or decades— he decides that he is dead. Death, it turns out, is terrifically boring. The light has lasted ten minutes, or a thousand millennia, and now it is gone, replaced by nothing at all. This isn't what death is supposed to be like. Death is supposed to be reward, or punishment, or at least oblivion. This is none of that. Only consciousness, and darkness. There isn't even any pain, now that the light is gone. He finds that he misses the pain. It was proof that he is real.

  * * *

  For the next million years, he tries to scream.

  * * *

  When the voice finally comes, he can barely hear it. It begins as whispers, indistinct mumblings that just fail to resolve themselves into words he can understand. There is one speaker, then dozens, then hundreds, then a single voice again. He strains to hear, to understand, his ears not up to the task by the slightest of margins.

  "Who are you?" he tries to ask, and makes no sound.

  OUR NAME IS PATIENCE, the voice replies, and he finally understands. Had he the power to do so, he would weep with relief.

  "Where am I?" he asks. NOWHERE, Patience replies. NOT YET. WE ARE DECIDING IF THERE IS SOMETHING TO BE DONE WITH THEE. THOU HAST SINNED AGAINST US, YOUNG ONE, AND SINNED GRAVELY. BUT WE HAVE BEEN KNOWN TO FORGIVE.

  "I don't understand," he replies, and still his words make no sound.

  UNDERSTANDING SHALL BE GRANTED TO THEE WHEN WE WISH IT, Patience replies. AND NOT UNTIL.

  He thinks carefully, or tries to. He does not remember his sin. A spike of fear shoots through him as he realizes just how little he does remember. He is unable to recall his own name, or his mother's face. Perhaps he deserves what Patience is doing to him.

  "Why can't I see you?" he asks.

  SOON, Patience says.

  * * *

  Another eternity passes, and the light returns. With it is Patience's voice, still and quiet, everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

  THY VISION SHALL BE RESTORED TO THEE, Patience says. DO NOT TRY TO UNDERSTAND WHAT THOU ART SHOWN. TRUST IN US THAT ALL SHALL BE MADE WHOLE SOON.

  "My sin," he says. "Have you forgiven me? What did I do?"

  THOU ART FORGIVEN, Patience says, AT LEAST FOR NOW. BE CALM, AND BE THOU RENEWED.

  And he remembers. A warship, stolen. A dash across space, thoughts of revenge burning in his soul. And an attack upon a capital ship larger than any he had ever seen before. And after that …

  death

  … he cannot remember. A burst of heat and flame, and shattering cold, and ignominy.

  I was dead I was dead I died I was killed I DIED

  THOU DIDST NOT DIE, Patience says.

  I died I was shot and burned and crushed and blown to pieces I died

  NO, Patience says.

  my body gone my spirit scattered nothing left no breath no hope no light no love no worries no fears died died died died DIED

  BUT THOU ART ALIVE, Patience says, AND WE HAVE FORGIVEN THEE FOR THY TRESPASSES AGAINST US.

  "Who am I?" he asks again.

  REMEMBER.

  "I died," Haakoro says, as his name is restored to him.

  The world returns.

  * * *

  Patience— it could only be Patience— stands before him. Xe looks like an elf, but Haakoro can't recall ever seeing an elf that looks like this one before. Patience's face is a black so deep it borders on obsidian, and xe stands nearly as tall as an ogre. Xe is wearing plush, soft robes— the word raiment floats through Haakoro's head unbidden— of the deepest blue he's ever seen. Xir hands, as pure white as xir face is black, are folded atop a needle-thin cane that Haakoro suspects xe has never actually needed. The look on xir face radiates wisdom and …

  Benevolence.

  As that word echoes through his mind Haakoro finds himself more afraid than he has ever been. He was filled with rage before; rage at tyranny, rage at being manipulated, rage at war and at death. Now he only feels fear.

  "Speak," Patience says. Xir voice is soft, pleasant. "Thou hast questions. Ask them."

  For a sudden, terrible moment, Haakoro wants to apologize. To throw himself at Patience's feet and beg xir forgiveness. He doesn't move. He's not sure he can yet.

  "How?" is all he asks. His voice … it isn't his, and it sounds tinny, as if it was coming out of a cheap speaker. His sight is restored, but he still can't feel any of his body. But he's definitely hearing now, instead of having Patience's voice suddenly appear in his head. That's progress, of a sort.

  Patience smiles, and something about the kindly look on xir face reminds Haakoro of his grandparents. The thought repulses him.

  "Oh, Haakoro," Patience says. "Thou came to us with anger in thy heart, and with murder in thy soul. Thou brought war to our home, to our Testament. And we defended ourselves, did we not? We did. And thy hurts were turned away, and thy weapons rendered irrelevant. But thou? Thou did not die. And we found thee, and brought thee close, to our bosom, for we … well, we found thee interesting, and we brought thee back to wakefulness, even as we seek now to restore thy body and thy movement to you."

  For the first time in a while, Haakoro really tries to move. His body is entirely inert; he can't even see himself. His arms and legs respond to no commands. He screams again, a sound of frustration and fear, and Patience tsks at him and something happens and he can't even hear himself any longer.

  "Sleep now," Patience says. "We shall see thee again soon, and we shall discuss thy future. But thou should not try to move. We have much to do, ere thine movement be restored along with thine sight and speech. Witness." Patience steps back from Haakoro and, almost lazily, waves a hand in front of him. The air solidifies, becomes reflective. And Haakoro sees something in that reflection, something that makes the screaming begin again, and this time he is unable to stop.

  He sees a single eye, floating in a glass tube, suspended in a pink-tinged liquid. Other, meaty things, less identifiable, float in the tube with his eye. Wires trail off from the back of the eye, leading somewhere. Perhaps his brain is in there somewhere as well. Perhaps he is a machine intelligence of some sort now, a sentient 'bot that only thinks of itself as Haakoro. He tries to turn his eye away from the sight of itself. It does not move. The world, blessedly, fades to black anyway.

  * * *

  When he comes to, he is walking. Or perhaps he is being carried. He tries to stop moving and cannot. Two black-armored Benevolence agents walk a few steps in front of him, both carrying frightening-looking assault rifles. There are two more behind him. He is, he realizes, not entirely sure how he knows they are there, but he does, and they are.

  As he walks, he tries to test his body, and he finds that he can feel it, but he cannot control it. He feels the floor on his feet and the slight breeze as the air swirls around him. His arms sway at his sides. There is a slightly bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. He tries to pull his gaze toward his feet, to get a look at himself, to no avail. The agents do not speak. They lead him to a doorway and they stop. So does he.

  A few moments of silence, and then the doorway slides open.

  And behind the door, infinity.

  Haakoro enters.

  * * *

  The door opens into what appears to be the outer hull of the ship. But this can't be true. There was no airlock, no screaming wind as the inner atmosphere of the ship voids itself into empty space. There has to be something keeping air near him— a transparent dome, perhaps. Is he breathing? He thinks he is. No way to breathe in outer space.

  In the distance, Patience stands alone, leaning on xir cane, xir blue raiment and white hands glowing against the black. Patience raises a hand and beckons Haakoro toward xir. Haakoro approaches. He thinks he is doing it on his own, but he isn't sure.

  "Beautiful, is it not?" Patience says.

  Haakoro finds that he can control his neck. He looks upwards. Patience is right; the stars, undimmed by even the slightest hint of atmospheric haze, are indeed beautiful.
/>
  "They are," he replies.

  "It belongs to us," Patience says. "All of it."

  "Must be nice," says Haakoro. "I didn't even own the ship I was using."

  Patience smiles, brushes the back of xir hand across Haakoro's face, or whatever it is that is underneath his eyes now. The gesture is almost tender.

  "Thou art so young," xe says. "Fine. For the sake of clarity: it belongs to me. It is mine. The entire expanse of the sky, and all the stars, and all the galaxies, and all the planets and all the beings and all the lives within. We— I— rule it all. Alone."

  Haakoro would raise an eyebrow, but he's not sure he has any muscles in his face. He wonders if this is braggadocio or ignorance. Surely Patience knows that there are wide swaths of space that the Benevolence does not yet occupy.

  "Dost thou know where we find our warriors, young man?" Patience asks. "Our agents of Benevolence?"

  "I don't," he answers. It's never occurred to him to wonder. He has always assumed that they were volunteers at first, or perhaps conscripts, but surely no conscript would act as single-mindedly as the Benevolence does. Surely volunteers, and volunteers with a long, arduous training process.

  "We have chosen that word for a reason," Patience says. "Our agents do not come to us. Some try, surely; they are allowed into our service in other ways. No, our agents are found. Some of them are identified as early as their first year of life. Others come to us in their adolescence. And some … well, some elude us for a longer time. But they are found, young Haakoro, and they are brought into the fold, all of them, and once they are here they serve us well."