by Neil Clarke
I retreat from the depths enough to answer him. “The architecture you have now was never meant to last. It is . . . ” I do not know why I pick the word: “juvenile.”
Mosby opens his mouth but Ahmed looks at him says, “Less talk, more work.”
I must agree with Ahmed.
Ignoring the sounds of the control room, I return my focus to the Legacy‘s architecture. I pull myself deeper, down into the disordered conglomeration of systems, losing awareness of my physical body. I focus all my mental acuity to study the ship.
It wants to grow, to metamorphose, to mature. I can tell this much: growth could be good, but it also could be cancerous. The old connections run dry and slough off, and the systems sprout wild new vine stubs that quest in every direction. Left to their own devices, the systems will strangle themselves with malformed, overgrown connective structure. But how am I to guide this process, rife with botanical zeal only a Bright could comprehend?
I pause, thinking. Metamorphosis is an animal concept. They are not vines, they are tentacles—and tentacles I understand. I think of my stellate fighter, how cleanly designed it was, with its eight rays each encapsulating a tentacle, and all the neatly arranged interfaces. And at the center, my brain to process and control.
So, me—and by extension, the control room—at the nexus of the web. The strongest connections, thick and steady, direct from each system to the nexus. Lesser connections, flexible and mutable, exchanging information among the systems themselves. I weave the ship the way I would weave my own flesh, easing the nascent tentacles over a new growth template as if it were a foreign genome to be integrated.
When the connections have been laid, the most delicate part still remains to be done: I carefully extract myself from the center of the web, leaving behind the shell of the control room, not so much a vacancy as a resting state. I pull away, leaving all the connections intact, the hollow space waiting patiently for its next command.
It is done. And, if all is right, it will even be receptive to the humans’ control.
I rise slowly, like floating up to the surface from the depths of an ocean, the lights and sounds of the control room wavering and resolving. I blink, eyes slow to focus as the ciliary muscles reawaken to their duties.
On every wall of the room, the display screens shine with dazzling varicolored light. My tear ducts water, my pupils hasten to contract. I see the humans shading their faces with their hands, so I know my body’s reaction is not an oversensitive after-effect of deep interfacing. The screens are very bright.
Yes, I realize. The screens are Bright.
“They’re beautiful,” says Rosenberg, “even if it hurts to look at them.”
Ahmed is still bent over a console. “There’s an audio recording, too, but the frequencies are all ultrasonic.”
Rosenberg asks, “What are they saying?”
“It’ll take awhile for the translators to work it out,” says Ahmed.
“Unnecessary,” I say. I force some crude adjustments to the anatomy of my ears, expanding the range of my hearing. The recording is part-way through the message, but I wait until the end and it loops back to the beginning. “Roughly translated: the Legacy’s destination is a research base on a dwarf planet in the outskirts of the Brights’ home system. They hope that, in the time it has taken your primitive species to develop interplanetary travel and discover Legacy, the pathogen will have gone extinct. The research base contains preserved samples of healthy Bright genomes. If you have the technology to restore plant biota from the genomic database and shepherd Legacy through the transition to maturity, you will be able to restore the Brights.”
Everyone goes quiet. What have I done, meddling in the fate of these humans? An ambassador would have known better than to do for them what they cannot do themselves; I was a fool to think I could help without entangling myself. I feel nauseated, an unfamiliar physiological response to this upwelling of emotions inside me.
Ahmed is the one who says what they all must be thinking. “But it wasn’t us who brought back the plants and guided the ship, it was you.”
Which means the task of restoring the Brights falls on my shoulders, not theirs. “I know,” I say, and rush from the room.
Hiding in the aft solarium, I stare out at the painted starscape. By human means of reckoning, this region of space was my home for three lifetimes: cold empty death punctuated with tiny oases of energy and life. They all belonged to me, once. I felt at home in the void, satisfied with what I was, and now I am trapped behind this glass and can only yearn for that silent solitary existence.
At my core I am a fighter pilot—a thug, a killer. I was made to do what the rest of the Sheekah, with their delicate dispositions, could not. How can anyone expect me to resurrect a whole sentient species when all my training and experience has been in dealing death, not life?
I am no one’s savior. It is too heavy a burden to bear.
Liu comes in: shuffle, shuffle, soft steps on the deck. He approaches hesitantly, hanging back as if he doesn’t wish to intrude on my thoughts.
“Rosenberg sent you?” I say. I am learning how their hierarchy works.
Liu takes the words for an invitation and joins me on the bench. “She wants me to try talking with you.”
“We have now spoken.” I look at him. “You may report success.”
“Why, Ohree, that was almost a joke. Are you growing a sense of humor to go with the mammalian physique?”
“Doubtful,” I say, looking away again. Though maybe I am.
Liu lets out a loud breath. His vocal pitch drops lower. “You know what I’m here to ask you about.”
“Rosenberg wants me to continue with you to your destination. Rosenberg wants me to revive the Brights.”
“We can’t do it without you, obviously.”
“You do not understand. The process will not be a simple one, like with the seeds. Brights are very complex organisms. I will have to adapt my whole physiology, I will have to gestate the embryos inside me.”
Liu is silent for so long that I give up my view of the stars and turn to face him. He is staring at me. “What exactly do you have on your to-do list that ranks more important than this?”
I pause. “If they made the smallest mistake, if even one gene region is tainted with pathogenic code, I will die.”
“Since when were you more afraid of dying than of not having a purpose?” Liu’s lips curl in an expression I now know to indicate amusement. “How human of you.”
The words fall on me like a blow. He is right—only two days ago I was contemplating suicide. I fall back on an older argument. “An ambassador would be properly trained for such a task, which I am not.”
“You thought you couldn’t guide the Legacy through her transition, but you could,” he said. “It doesn’t matter that your own society marked you a castaway. It doesn’t matter what life you had before. You are capable of things you haven’t even dreamt of yet, and it would honor us to be the ones who help you discover those things.”
I go very still. I do not dare to hope this could be true. It violates a paradigm so deep-seated in my psyche that I did not even suspect its existence until now.
Liu says, “Humans aren’t in the habit of changing their given names. Surnames, though, were originally descriptive—you were named for your profession, or the village you came from, or your parentage.” He pauses, the silence almost livid in the air. “You don’t have a surname.”
If I was frozen before, now I am a comet lost between the stars—even my molecules feel stuck. I am sure I could not look away if I tried. I know Liu knows how Sheekah naming works.
Liu smiles, though somehow the expression seems grave, as if he understands exactly what it is he’s doing. “I think we’ll call you Ohree Brightbearer, if the sound of it suits you.”
“Yes,” I say, hardly able to breathe. “Yes, it suits me fine.”
I am named, and there is work ahead of me.
Brandon Sande
rson has published numerous novels with Tor—Elantris, the Mistborn books, Warbreaker, The Way of Kings, Words of Radiance, and the young adult fantasy The Rithmatist. Five books in the middle-grade Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians series are being released by Starscape. He was chosen to complete Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series; the final book, A Memory of Light, was released in 2013. His newest YA novel, Calamity, was released by Delacorte in February 2016. Currently living in Utah with his wife and children, Brandon teaches creative writing at Brigham Young University.
FIRSTBORN
Brandon Sanderson
While safe aboard his flagship, there were two ways for Denni-son to watch the battle. The obvious method relied on the expansive battle hologram that dominated the bridge. The hologram was on at the moment, and it displayed an array of triangular blue blips representing fighters flying about waist high. The much larger blue oval of Dennison’s command ship hung a moderate distance above and behind the fighters. The massive and powerful but far less agile leviathan probably wouldn’t see battle this day. The enemy’s ships were too weak to damage its hull, but they were also too fast for it to catch. This would be a battle between the smaller fighters.
And Dennison would lead them. He rose from his command chair and walked a few steps to the hologram’s edge, studying the enemy. Their red ships winked into existence as scanners located them amid the rolling boulders of the asteroid field. Rebels in name but pirates in action, the group had thrived unhindered for far too long. It had been five years since his brother Varion had reestablished His Majesty’s law in this sector, and the rebellious elements should have long since been crushed.
Dennison stepped into the hologram, walking until he stood directly behind his ships. There were about two dozen of them—not a large force, by Fleet standards, but bigger than he deserved. He glanced to the side. Noncommissioned aides and lesser officers had paused in their duties, eyes turned toward their youthful commander. Though they offered no obvious disrespect, Dennison could see their true feelings in their eyes. They did not expect him to win.
Well, Dennison thought, wouldn’t want to disappoint the good folks.
“Divide the squadrons,” Dennison commanded. His order was transmitted directly to the various captains, and his small fleet broke into four smaller groups. Ahead, the pirates began to form up as well—though they stayed within their asteroid cover.
Through the movement of their ships, Dennison could feel their battle strategy taking shape. At his disposal was all the formal military knowledge that came with a high-priced Academy education. Memories of lectures and textbooks mixed in his head, enhancing the practical experience he’d gained during a half dozen years commanding simulations and, eventually, real battles.
Yes, he could see it. He could see what the enemy commanders were doing; he could sense their strategies. And he almost knew how to counter them.
“My lord?” an aide said, stepping forward. She bore a battle visor in her hands. “Will you be needing this?”
The visor was the second way a commander could watch the battle. Each fighter bore a camera just inside its cockpit to relay a direct view. Varion always wore a battle visor. Dennison, however, was not his brother. He seemed to be the only one who realized that fact.
“No,” Dennison said, waving the aide away. The action caused a stir among the bridge team, and Dennison caught a glare from Brell, his XO.
“Send Squadron C to engage,” Dennison commanded, ignoring Brell.
A group of four fighters broke off from the main fleet, streaking toward the asteroids. Blue met red, and the battle began in earnest.
Dennison strode through the hologram, watching, giving commands, and analyzing—just as he had been taught. Dogfighting ships zipped around his head; fist-size asteroids shattered as he walked through their space, then re-formed after he had passed. He moved like some ancient god of lore, presiding over a battlefield of miniature mortals who couldn’t see him, but undeniably felt his almighty hand.
Except if Dennison was a god, his specialty certainly wasn’t war.
His education kept him from making any disastrous mistakes, but before long, the battle had progressed to the point where it was no longer winnable. His complete lack of pride let him order the expected retreat. The Fleet ships limped away, reduced by more than half. From the statistics glowing into hovering holographic existence before him, Dennison could see that his ships had managed to destroy barely a dozen enemy fighters.
Dennison stepped from the hologram, leaving the red ships victorious and the blue ships despondent. The hologram disappeared, its images shattering and dribbling to the command center’s floor like shimmering dust, the pieces eventually burning away in the light. Crewmembers stood around the perimeter, their eyes showing the sickly shame of defeat.
Only Brell had the courage to speak what they were all thinking. “He really is an idiot,” he muttered under his breath.
Dennison paused by the doorway. He turned with a raised eyebrow, and found Brell staring back unrepentantly. Another High Officer probably would have sent him to the brig for insubordination. Of course, another commander wouldn’t have earned such disrespect in the first place. Dennison leaned back against the side of the doorway, arms folded in an unmilitaristic posture. “I should probably punish you, Brell. I am a High Officer, after all.”
This, at least, made the man look aside. Dennison lounged, letting Brell realize that—incompetent or not—Dennison had the power to destroy a man’s career with a mere comm call.
Dennison finally sighed, standing up and walking forward. “But, you know, I’ve never really believed in disciplining men for speaking the truth. Yes, Brell. I, Dennison Crestmar—brother of the great Varion Crestmar, cousin to kings and commander of fleets—am an idiot. Just like all of you have heard.”
Dennison paused right in front of Brell, then reached out and tapped the man’s chest in the center of his High Imperial Emblem. “But think of this,” Dennison continued with a light smile. “If I’m an idiot, then you must be pretty damn incompetent yourself; otherwise they would never have wasted you by sending you to serve under me.”
Brell’s face flared red at the insult, but he showed uncharacteristic restraint by holding his tongue. Dennison turned and strolled from the room. “Prepare my speeder for my return to the Point,” he commanded. “I’m due for dinner with my father tomorrow.”
He missed dinner. However, it wasn’t his fault, considering he had to travel half the length of the High Empire. Dennison’s father, High Duke Sennion Crestmar, was waiting for him in the spaceport when he arrived.
Sennion didn’t say a word as Dennison left the airlock and approached. The High Duke was a tall man—proud, broad shouldered, with a noble face. He was the epitome of what a High Officer should be. At least Den-nison had inherited the height.
The High Duke turned. Dennison fell into step beside him, and the two strode down the Officer’s Walk—a pathway with a deep red carpet, trimmed with gold. It was reserved for High Officers, uncluttered by the civilians and lower ranks who bustled against each other on either side. There were no vehicles or moving walkways on the Officer’s Walk. High Officers carried themselves. There was strength in walking—or so Dennison’s father always said. The High Duke was rather fond of self-congratulatory mottoes.
“Well?” Sennion finally asked, eyes forward.
Dennison shrugged. “I really tried this time, if it makes any difference.”
“If you had ‘tried,’ ” Sennion said flatly, “you would have won. You had superior ships, superior men, and superior training.”
Dennison didn’t bother trying to argue with Sennion. He had given up on that particular waste of sanity years ago.
“The High Emperor assumed that you simply needed practical experience,” Sennion said, almost to himself. “He thought that simulations and school games weren’t realistic enough to engage you.”
“Even emperors can be wrong, Father,” De
nnison said.
Sennion didn’t even favor him with a glare.
Here it comes, Dennison thought. He’s finally going to admit it. He’s finally going to let me go. Dennison wasn’t certain what he’d do once he was released from military command—but whatever he chose to do, he couldn’t possibly be any worse at it.
“I have arranged a new commission for you,” Sennion finally said.
Dennison started. Then he closed his eyes, barely suppressing a sigh. How many failures would the High Duke need to see before he gave up?
“It’s aboard the Stormwind.”
Dennison froze in place.
Sennion stopped, finally turning to regard his son. People streamed to either side on the lower walks, ignoring the two men in fine uniforms standing on the crimson carpet.
Dumbfounded, it took Dennison a moment to begin to respond. “But . . . ”
“It’s a fine ship—a good place to learn. You will serve as an adjutant and squadron commander for High Admiral Kern.”
“I know it’s a ‘fine ship,’ ” Dennison said through clenched teeth. “Father, that is a real command on an imperial flagship, not some idle playing in the Reaches. It’s bad enough when I lose a dozen men fighting pirates. Need I be responsible for the deaths of thousands in the Reunification War as well?”
“I know Admiral Kern,” Sennion said, ignoring his son’s objections. “He is an excellent tactician. Perhaps he will be able to help you with your . . . problems.”
“Problems?” Dennison demanded quietly. “Problems, Father? Has it never even occurred to you that I’m just not any good at this? It isn’t dishonorable for the son of a High Duke to seek another profession, once he’s proven himself unsuited to command. Goodness knows, I’ve certainly satisfied that particular requirement.”
Sennion stepped forward, grabbing Dennison by the shoulders. “You will not speak that way,” he commanded. “You are not like other officers. The High Empire expects more. The High Empire demands more!”
