Galactic Empires

by Neil Clarke

  “Visual contact,” the kite said crisply.

  The stranger-kite was the color of a tarnished star. It had tucked all its projections away to present a minimal surface for targeting, but Lisse had no doubt that it could unfold itself faster than she could draw breath. The kite flew a widening helix, beautifully precise.

  “A mercenary salute, equal to equal,” the ghost said.

  “Are we expected to return it?”

  “Are you a mercenary?” the ghost countered.

  “Communications incoming,” the kite said before Lisse could make a retort.

  “I’ll hear it,” Lisse said over the ghost’s objection. It was the least courtesy she could offer, even to a mercenary.

  To Lisse’s surprise, the tapestry’s raven vanished to reveal a woman’s visage, not an emblem. The woman had brown skin, a scar trailing from one temple down to her cheekbone, and dark hair cropped short. She wore gray on gray, in no uniform that Lisse recognized, sharply tailored. Lisse had expected a killer’s eyes, a hunter’s eyes. Instead, the woman merely looked tired.

  “Commander Kiriet Dzan of—” She had been speaking in administrative, but the last word was unfamiliar. “You would say Candle.”

  “Lisse of Rhaion,” she said. There was no sense in hiding her name.

  But the woman wasn’t looking at her. She was looking at the ghost. She said something sharply in that unfamiliar language.

  The ghost pressed its hand against Lisse’s. She shuddered, not understanding. “Be strong,” it murmured.

  “I see,” Kiriet said, once more speaking in administrative. Her mouth was unsmiling. “Lisse, do you know who you’re traveling with?”

  “I don’t believe we’re acquainted,” the ghost said, coldly formal.

  “Of course not,” Kiriet said. “But I was the logistical coordinator for the scouring of Rhaion.” She did not say consolidation. “I knew why we were there. Lisse, your ghost’s name is Vron Arien.”

  Lisse said, after several seconds, “That’s a mercenary name.”

  The ghost said, “So it is. Lisse—” Its hand fell away.

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Its mouth was taut. Then: “Lisse, I—”

  “Tell me.”

  “He was a deserter, Lisse,” the woman said, carefully, as if she thought the information might fracture her. “For years he eluded Wolf Command. Then we discovered he had gone to ground on Rhaion. Wolf Command determined that, for sheltering him, Rhaion must be brought to heel. The Imperium assented.”

  Throughout this Lisse looked at the ghost, silently begging it to deny any of it, all of it. But the ghost said nothing.

  Lisse thought of long nights with the ghost leaning by her bedside, reminding her of the dancers, the tame birds, the tangle of frostfruit trees in the city square; things she did not remember herself because she had been too young when the jerengjen came. Even her parents only came to her in snatches: curling up in a mother’s lap, helping a father peel plantains. Had any of the ghost’s stories been real?

  She thought, too, of the way the ghost had helped her plan her escape from Base 87, how it had led her cunningly through the maze and to the kite. At the time, it had not occurred to her to wonder at its confidence.

  Lisse said, “Then the kite is yours.”

  “After a fashion, yes.” The ghost’s eyes were precisely the color of ash after the last ember’s death. “But my parents—”

  Enunciating the words as if they cut it, the ghost said, “We made a bargain, your parents and I.”

  She could not help it; she made a stricken sound.

  “I offered you my protection,” the ghost said. “After years serving the Imperium, I knew its workings. And I offered your parents vengeance. Don’t think that Rhaion wasn’t my home, too.”

  Lisse was wrackingly aware of Kiriet’s regard. “Did my parents truly die in the consolidation?” The euphemism was easier to use.

  She could have asked whether Lisse was her real name. She had to assume that it wasn’t.

  “I don’t know,” it said. “After you were separated from them, I had no way of finding out. Lisse, I think you had better find out what Kiriet wants. She is not your friend.”

  I was the logistical coordinator, Kiriet had said. And her surprise at seeing the ghost—It has a name, Lisse reminded herself—struck Lisse as genuine. Which meant Kiriet had not come here in pursuit of Vron Arien. “Why are you here?” Lisse asked.

  “You’re not going to like it. I’m here to destroy your kite, whatever you’ve named it.”

  “It doesn’t have a name.” She had been unable to face the act of naming, of claiming ownership.

  Kiriet looked at her sideways. “I see.”

  “Surely you could have accomplished your goal,” Lisse said, “without talking to me first. I am inexperienced in the ways of kites. You are not.” In truth, she should already have been running. But Kiriet’s revelation meant that Lisse’s purpose, once so clear, was no longer to be relied upon.

  “I may not be your friend, but I am not your enemy, either,” Kiriet said. “I have no common purpose with the Imperium, not anymore. But you cannot continue to use the kite.”

  Lisse’s eyes narrowed. “It is the weapon I have,” she said. “I would be a fool to relinquish it.”

  “I don’t deny its efficacy,” Kiriet said, “but you are Rhaioni. Doesn’t the cost trouble you?”

  Cost?

  Kiriet said, “So no one told you.” Her anger focused on the ghost.

  “A weapon is a weapon,” the ghost said. At Lisse’s indrawn breath, it said, “The kites take their sustenance from the deaths they deal. It was necessary to strengthen ours by letting it feast on smaller targets first. This is the particular craft of my people, as ghostweight was the craft of yours, Lisse.”

  Sustenance. “So this is why you want to destroy the kite,” Lisse said to Kiriet.

  “Yes.” The other woman’s smile was bitter. “As you might imagine, the Imperium did not approve. It wanted to negotiate another hundred-year contract. I dissented.”

  “Were you in a position to dissent?” the ghost asked, in a way that made Lisse think that it was translating some idiom from its native language.

  “I challenged my way up the chain of command and unseated the head of Wolf Command,” Kiriet said. “It was not a popular move. I have been destroying kites ever since. If the Imperium is so keen on further conquest, let it dirty its own hands.”

  “Yet you wield a kite yourself,” Lisse said.

  “Candle is my home. But on the day that every kite is accounted for in words of ash and cinders, I will turn my own hand against it.”

  It appealed to Lisse’s sense of irony. All the same, she did not trust Kiriet.

  She heard a new voice. Kiriet’s head turned. “Someone’s followed you.” She said a curt phrase in her own language, then: “You’ll want my assistance—”

  Lisse shook her head.

  “It’s a small flight, as these things go, but it represents a threat to you. Let me—”

  “No,” Lisse said, more abruptly than she had meant to. “I’ll handle it myself.”

  “If you insist,” Kiriet said, looking even more tired. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Then her face was replaced, for a flicker, with her emblem: a black candle crossed slantwise by an empty sheath.

  “The Candle is headed for a vortex, probably for cover,” the ghost said, very softly. “But it can return at any moment.”

  Lisse thought that she was all right, and then the reaction set in. She spent several irrecoverable breaths shaking, arms wrapped around herself, before she was able to concentrate on the tapestry data.

  At one time, every war-kite displayed a calligraphy scroll in its command spindle. The words are, approximately: I have only one candle

  Even by the mercenaries’ standards, it is not much of a poem. But the woman who wrote it was a soldier, not a poet.

  The mercenaries no lon
ger have a homeland. Even so, they keep certain traditions, and one of them is the Night of Vigils. Each mercenary honors the year’s dead by lighting a candle. They used to do this on the winter solstice of an ancient calendar. Now the Night of Vigils is on the anniversary of the day the first war-kites were launched; the day the mercenaries slaughtered their own people to feed the kites.

  The kites fly, the mercenaries’ commandant said. But they do not know how to hunt.

  When he was done, they knew how to hunt. Few of the mercenaries forgave him, but it was too late by then.

  The poem says: So many people have died, yet I have only one candle for them all.

  It is worth noting that “have” is expressed by a particular construction for alienable possession: not only is the having subject to change, it is additionally under threat of being taken away.

  Kiriet’s warning had been correct. An Imperial flight in perfect formation had advanced toward them, inhibiting their avenues of escape. They outnumbered her forty-eight to one. The numbers did not concern her, but the Imperium’s resources meant that if she dealt with this flight, there would be twenty more waiting for her, and the numbers would only grow worse. That they had not opened fire already meant they had some trickery in mind.

  One of the flyers peeled away, describing an elegant curve and exposing its most vulnerable surface, painted with a rose. “That one’s not armed,” Lisse said, puzzled.

  The ghost’s expression was unreadable. “How very wise of them,” it said.

  The forward tapestry flickered. “Accept the communication,” Lisse said.

  The emblem that appeared was a trefoil flanked by two roses, one stem-up, one stem-down. Not for the first time, Lisse wondered why people from a culture that lavished attention on miniatures and sculptures were so intent on masking themselves in emblems.

  “Commander Fai Guen, this is Envoy Nhai Bara.” A woman’s voice, deep and resonant, with an accent Lisse didn’t recognize.

  So I’ve been promoted? Lisse thought sardonically, feeling herself tense up. The Imperium never gave you anything, even a meaningless rank, without expecting something in return.

  Softly, she said to the ghost, “They were bound to catch up to us sooner or later.” Then, to the kite: “Communications to Envoy Nhai: I am Lisse of Rhaion. What words between us could possibly be worth exchanging? Your people are not known for mercy.”

  “If you will not listen to me,” Nhai said, “perhaps you will listen to the envoy after me, or the one after that. We are patient and we are many. But I am not interested in discussing mercy: that’s something we have in common.”

  “I’m listening,” Lisse said, despite the ghost’s chilly stiffness. All her life she had honed herself against the Imperium. It was unbearable to consider that she might have been mistaken. But she had to know what Nhai’s purpose was.

  “Commander Lisse,” the envoy said, and it hurt like a stab to hear her name spoken by a voice other than the ghost’s, a voice that was not Rhaioni. Even if she knew, now, that the ghost was not Rhaioni, either. “I have a proposal for you. You have proven your military effectiveness—”

  Military effectiveness. She had tallied all the deaths, she had marked each massacre on the walls of her heart, and this faceless envoy collapsed them into two words empty of number.

  “—quite thoroughly. We are in need of a strong sword. What is your price for hire, Commander Lisse?”

  “What is my—” She stared at the trefoil emblem, and then her face went ashen.

  It is not true that the dead cannot be folded. Square becomes kite becomes swan; history becomes rumor becomes song. Even the act of remembrance creases the truth.

  But the same can be said of the living.

  Tobias S. Buckell is a New York Times-bestselling author born in the Caribbean. He grew up in Grenada and spent time in the British and US Virgin Islands, which influence much of his work.

  His novels and over fifty stories have been translated into eighteen different languages. His work has been nominated for awards like the Hugo, Nebula, Prometheus, and the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Science Fiction Author.

  He currently lives in Bluffton, Ohio, with his wife, twin daughters, and a pair of dogs. He can be found online at www.TobiasBuckell.com

  A COLD HEART

  Tobias S. Buckell

  In the mining facility’s automated sickbay she’d put her metal hand on your chest and said, “I’m sorry.” The starry glinting fragments of ice and debris bounced around the portholes. Twinkling like stars, but shaken loose of their spots in the dark vacuum.

  They shot her hand, but she had pushed the raiders right back off her claim. The asteroid was still bagged and tagged as her own to prospect. You never told her they were all dead now, mere bloodstains on the corridors of Ceres, but one imagines she suspects as much.

  “I have a cold hand, but you have a cold heart,” she had said. “I can’t love a cold heart.” And it’s true.

  Strange place to part ways, but she’s been thinking about it for a while. Susan knows her path.

  “You’ll keep hunting for your memories?” she asks. “That corporate data fence?”

  You nod. “I’ll have more time on my hands.”

  It’s a strange thing to image a whole brain down to the quantum level. Crack a person apart and bolt a stronger skeletal system into him. Refashion him into a machine, a weapon to be used for one’s gain. Then burn the memories out. Use the lie of getting them back as a lure to make that human serve you. But stranger things had been done during the initial occupation of Earth.

  Now you’ll be having those back. You want to know who you were.

  You want more than just the one they left you to whet your appetite.

  Your first encounter with the Xaymaca Pride’s crew is an intense-looking engineer. Small scabs on her shaved head show she’s sloppy with a blade, and there’s irritation around the eye sockets, where a sad-looking metal eye has been welded into the skin somewhere in a cheap bodyshop. “You’re the mercenary,” she says. “Pepper.”

  You’re both hanging in the air inside the lock. The pressure differential slightly pushes at your ears. You crack your jaw, left, right, and the pressure ceases. The movement causes your dreadlocks to shift around you, tapping the side of your face.

  “I’m not on a job,” you tell her. “I don’t work for anyone anymore.”

  But you used to. And there’s a reputation. It’s spread in front of you like a bow wave. Dopplering around, varying in intensity here and there.

  Five years working with miners, stripping ore from asteroids enveloped in plastic bags and putting in sweat-work, and all anyone knows about is the old wetwork. Stuff that should have been left to the shadows. Secrets never meant for civilians.

  But that shit didn’t fly out in the tight tin cans floating around the outer solar system. Everyone had their noses in everyone else’s business.

  “The captain wants to see you before detach.”

  Probably having second thoughts, you think. Been hard to find a way to get out of the system, because the new rulers of the worlds here want you dead for past actions. You can skulk around the fringes, or even go back to Earth and hide in the packed masses and cities.

  But to go interstellar: you eventually get noticed when you’re one of the trickle of humanity leaving to the other forty-eight habitable worlds. Particularly if you’re one of the few that’s not a servant of the various alien species that are now the overlords of humanity.

  The bridge crew all twist in place to get a good look at you when you float into the orb-shaped cockpit at the deep heart of the cylindrical starship. They’re all lined up on one plane of the cockpit, the orb able to gimbal with the ship’s orientation to orient them to the pressures of high acceleration.

  Not common on an average container ship. Usually those were little more than a set of girders cargo could get slotted into with a living area on one end and engines on the other.

 
The captain hangs in the air, eyes drowned in shipboard internal information, but now he stirs and looks at you. His skin is brown, like yours. Like many of the crew’s. From what you’ve heard, they all hail from the Caribbean. DeBrun has been smuggling people out of the solar system to points beyond for a whole year now.

  “I’m John deBrun,” he says. “You’re Pepper.”

  You regard him neutrally.

  DeBrun starts the conversation jovially. “In order to leave the solar system, I need anti-matter, Pepper. And no one makes it but the Satraps and they only sell to those they like. They own interstellar commerce, and most of the planets in the solar system. And according to the bastard aliens, you do not have interstellar travel privileges. I’ve let you aboard, to ask you a question, face to face.”

  You raise an eyebrow. It’s a staged meeting. DeBrun is putting on a show for the bridge crew. “Yes?”

  “Why should I smuggle you from here to Nova Terra’s Orbital?”

  A moment passes as you seem to consider that, letting deBrun’s little moment stretch out. “It’ll piss off the Satraps, and I’ll wait long enough so that it’s not obvious you’re the ship that slipped me in.”

  DeBrun dramatically considers that, rubbing his chin. “How will you do that?”

  “I’m going to steal something from a Satrap.”

  “Steal what?”

  “My memories,” you tell him.

  DeBrun grins. “Okay.

  We’ll take you.” “Just like that?”

  “You know who we are, what we’re planning to do?”

  You nod. “An exodus. To find a new world, free of the Satrapy.”

  “Not to find,” deBrun says. “We found it. We just need to get there again, with five ships. And having you distract the Satrap at our rally point . . . well, I like that. There are a lot of people hiding on that habitat, waiting to get loaded up while we fuel. The first people of a whole new world, a new society. You should join.”

  “The Satrap at your rally point has something I want.”

  “So I’ve heard. Okay. Jay, shut the locks, clear us out. Our last passenger is on board.”