by C. Gockel
The sound of boots made them both look to the side, gasping for air. There were four people in Fleet grays in the kitchen and one man in civilian clothes. Volka still had her legs wrapped around Sixty’s back, and his hands were still around her waist. Instead of letting her go, Sixty pulled her tighter. Her brain spun in confusion. He wasn’t letting her go…and why was that shocking to her?
Because Alaric would have jumped back and made an excuse.
Because Sixty wasn’t ashamed of her.
The thought was so stunning she froze exactly as she was.
One of the men in Fleet grays said, “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting anything,” in a tone that said he definitely was not sorry. “But we need to interro—we need to hear exactly what you remember from your time on Shinar, Miss Volka, before your damned primitive Luddeccean bio-brain forgets everything that happened.”
Volka’s lip curled in a snarl. She almost growled, but Carl’s speech-to-ether device crackled. “Volka, you mind read that last bit from the lieutenant about primitive bio-brains.”
“Oh, what did he think? What did he think?” Bracelet asked.
The lieutenant’s face flushed.
Sixty spoke in his General voice. “An eidetic memory does not make a brain sophisticated, Lieutenant. Take it from an android that once didn’t have a Q-comm.” The words were icy, cold, and without inflection. Spoken like logic, they warmed Volka’s heart. He wasn’t letting her go. He was defending her…because he was serious. She was his, and he was taking care of her. He’d asked her to marry him, and he’d meant it.
Had there been a tiny part of her that had disbelieved? There must have been, because his care was leaving her in shock. But Sixty wouldn’t hurt her emotionally…he couldn’t—not intentionally—and an insincere offer of marriage would be devastating.
The lieutenant’s Adam apple bobbed. Taking a half step back, he bowed. “If you please, Miss Volka?”
She unhooked her legs from Sixty’s back. He released her waist. The drawstring of her loose, too-large trousers had come undone, and he tied it for her. His fingers were deft, his touch light; where they brushed her body, they left trails of heat. Stepping back, he offered his hand and helped her off the counter. It was a good thing. She felt dizzy. Overwhelmed.
“You can get dressed if you like,” the lieutenant said.
“Actually, we can’t,” Volka said.
“Our clothes were destroyed in Shinar,” Sixty finished.
“Two people who’ve seen real action. That will tick the lieutenant straight off,” said one of the Fleet personnel, which was strange. The Republic was more relaxed about social hierarchies, but no one would put down Lieutenant Young like that. Her ears flicked. Which one had said it?
“Err…Volka,” said Carl.
Someone else said, “Destroyed while they were rescuing an important scientist and innocent civilians. There couldn’t be a better excuse for being improperly clothed.” Volka’s ears flicked, trying to place which one of them actually said it. She hadn’t seen anyone’s lips move. Again, it seemed improper.
But it was also right. They had lost their clothing doing something noble and important and dangerous, and if Sixty kissed her afterward…well, they both owed each other a kiss after that. And he asked her to marry him, which made them practically engaged. Volka refused to be embarrassed, even if maybe she should. People in the Republic wore much less and did more in public than just kissing.
The lieutenant gestured to the living room, and she went.
“Hopefully, we won’t need them for faster-than-light travel much longer,” the lieutenant said.
Volka couldn’t even be mad at him for his rudeness. “We hope you won’t need us for faster-than-light travel, too,” she replied, sitting on a love seat. Tilting his head, Sixty raised an eyebrow and sat beside her.
The lieutenant had barely moved from the kitchen. His mouth was agape. “How did you…how…?”
“You’re reading minds again, Volka,” Carl said. He’d appropriated another egg, and he waved it about for emphasis.
She blinked. “I don’t feel tired. I feel wide awake.”
“I would say it is your heightened emotional state,” the werfle, replied, gripping the egg with his middle paw pairs, hopping over to the love seat, and taking a seat on one of the arms.
Volka glanced at Sixty and murmured, “Over cloud sixty-nine.” It came out half between a statement and a question. He held out his hand. She took it and felt his fingers wrap around hers. Forget needing to go back to the asteroid; she was already home.
“I’m ready,” she said, facing her inquisitors. “For anything.”
6T9 hadn’t been planning to ask Volka to marry him when he walked out of the shower. He’d just wanted her. His vision had flashed white—like it had done just before he’d punched James and during his rages on Shinar—and he’d found himself in the kitchen proposing.
Unlike the other incidents, the proposal had gone well. Very, very well. Volka’s response had been passionately positive. His hands flexed, remembering the curves of her sides and the softness of her ears in his hands. His sensory receptors lit everywhere their bodies had touched. Even with the thin garment between them, she’d been so warm and alive. The heat from his shower had been converted by his skin to power. The heat from Volka’s shower had caused her capillaries to dilate, and her skin to be almost feverish to the touch. It had been better than self-maintenance. If he thought about it, in hindsight, it was the perfect thing to ask. Normally, he was against marriage. It was an archaic institution, but it was customary in Volka’s culture. Marriage wasn’t necessary for relationship longevity in cultures where it wasn’t the norm. However, in populations where marriage was the norm, cohabiting partners were statistically more likely to have more doubts in their relationship. He didn’t want Volka to have doubts. And it was right to ask Volka as soon as possible. He knew he wanted to be with Volka for as long as possible. Better to put her doubts to rest immediately and tie themselves together now.
He tilted his head, half listening to the lieutenant’s questions. Was the flash of white just his Q-comm thinking too fast for his local operating system to fully comprehend what it was up to? His Q-comm had been set free from the confines of his original programming: don’t kill, don’t hurt unless requested, and have sex with anyone who asks directly unless it violates the first two rules. Maybe his Q-comm ruled him now more than his original body? His circuits dimmed as he remembered the bruises on Volka’s arms and his brief thoughts of deceiving her…his programming wasn’t integrated well, but he’d work out his features and his bugs—in the meantime, he wouldn’t share her with anyone. His hand tightened around Volka’s, and all his circuits sparked. He wanted to just dwell on that sensation, but his Q-comm sparked again. He frowned and reached out to the local news ether to hear words about Shinar…maybe because the business there might still affect Carl, Sundancer, Volka, and himself—maybe because the part of him that enjoyed thinking just wanted input.
In the real world, Volka was saying, “And then I called Sundancer while we were at the Bestiary…”
Over the ether, 6T9 found a fascinating hypothesis concerning Little Loaf’s eruption: the mycelium of the Shinar truffles was so extensive, it put pressure on the mantle beneath the mountain and had caused the eruption. There was even a hypothesis that the fungus needed infrequent but violent volcanic eruptions. Both of these hypotheses had been put forward by postdocs at Shinar university decades ago. They’d never received research funding or tenure, and the postdocs had left academia for private industry off world.
Despite the events of the day, 6T9’s mouth watered at memory of the Shinar truffles. To think his taste of heaven had brought about a bit of hell…the clever turn of phrase made him smile, which it should not. There were humans dying. He flicked his attention to the news reports of Fleet’s evacuation of Shinar…and found that it had united many factions in the Galactic Republic Senate. The Shinar Sy
stem had not been maintaining an adequate Local Guard, their ships were grounded due to personnel shortages, and Fleet was having to divert more ships than originally planned. There were over 10,000 suspected dead…
Noa started pinging him. James pinged, too. Bracelet interrupted Volka, “Miss Volka, Admiral Sato and James Sinclair are pinging you now.”
Before 6T9 could answer the pings, the Shinar report stopped. An announcer’s voice rang in his mind. “We interrupt this broadcast—” 6T9 half expected to hear the latest updates on the holostar who’d been the Venus de Willendorf, and then the Venus de Rubens—was she still Ruben’s Venus? “—for an emergency.” It was a live ethercast, and in his mind’s eye the broadcaster was sweating. Speech was too slow, and 6T9 switched to a binary code version of the announcement.
His vision went white as the ones and zeros were digested by his processor. He blinked and his eye lights switched on by some new bug in his programming, making the interviewers gasp and shade their eyes. Static flared beneath his skin, and his Q-comm flashed. The Dark was attacking the Republic. His Q-comm fired.
“Volka, get your envirosuit on now.”
20
Intrusion
Luddeccea: Northern Province
The sun was warm and welcome on Alaric’s back. Even in summer, the Northern provinces where his parents lived could be cool. He was standing with Alexis and Corporal Sebastian Tremain, one of her guards, in a hollow to the North of his parents’ house. The house was invisible from here, a field of oats, still green this early in the season, wrapped around a hill between them and it. On the hilltop, a windmill that was older than Alaric turned in the brisk breeze. At its base was a new gas generator that came instantly to life whenever the wind died, or the family needed more electricity. The generator wasn’t the only thing new at his parents’ farm. The house had been expanded, the furniture updated—they’d slept very comfortably on a brand-new mattress on a brand-new bed that fit his whole 190 centi length and Alexis. His parents had more livestock and better crops from the latest selectively bred seeds.
None of this had been given to them directly—his parents were too stubborn for charity—but after Alaric had fallen in line with the clan’s plans, opportunities for his family had suddenly materialized. His father had gotten an extremely well-paid, part-time position as a math teacher for the province’s most gifted students. Distributors for New Prime restaurants had requested his parents’ dairy products. His brothers had gotten choice apprenticeships, and during a visit to his grandparents’ home, his sister had met her husband.
He squinted between the trees that ringed the hollow and gave the place further privacy. The windmill’s blades were gleaming white. It was new, too.
Alexis raised her phaser pistol and aimed it at the target at the other end of the hollow. Her nearly black hair was pulled back more severely than usual, and her posture, once again, was too straight. “Bend your knees and lean forward to absorb the recoil,” Alaric said.
Alexis dutifully did as she was told, but her arms shook slightly, and her shot hit a tree above the target. It smoked, but thankfully did not catch.
Sebastian’s eyes met Alaric’s, and the Guardsman smiled slightly. Sebastian had hit that same tree a decade or so ago. Sebastian was Alaric’s cousin—or more accurately, second cousin once removed—on his mother’s side. Eleven years younger than Alaric, they’d actually been reasonably close in the way even distant cousins with limited social circles tended to be. Alaric had taught him to shoot in this same place. Since family wasn’t allowed to serve under family, the Guard must not be aware they were related. Sebastian was proud and never behaved in a way that was familiar while on duty, or when any of his fellow Guardsmen were around and hadn’t given the relationship away. At the moment, the rest of Alexis’s guards were out of sight up on the hilltops surrounding them. For all they knew, Alaric was down here having a little bit of target practice, wife tagging dutifully along with a picnic basket.
All of Alexis’s guards had exemplary records and yet…Before this little adventure, Alaric had taken Sebastian aside, and, after telling him his plans, had said, “I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention it to anyone. It’s not common in the city for ladies to shoot; it would be seen as vulgar. My wife has been the focus of a lot of gossip, and I’d like it kept quiet.”
“Of course, Captain,” Sebastian had replied, shaking his head, probably in disbelief. Both of their mothers were tough, rural women who could and did shoot.
“Not even your mother,” Alaric had added, and Sebastian’s eyes had widened.
Sebastian’s mother had once famously shot at a salesman who had taken a shortcut through her precious marigolds. She hadn’t killed him—but she’d blown a hole in the vacuum he’d been toting. The local authorities knew if she’d been trying to kill him, he’d have been dead, and she was never prosecuted. “All right,” Sebastian said, smiling a little. “Not even Mum.”
“Do I have your word as a Guardsman or as family?” Alaric had pressed.
Smile stretching into a grin, Sebastian had flushed. “Both…Cuz.”
Alaric had found himself grinning back. They shook hands, caught each other in shoulder hugs, and Alaric figured the secret was as safe as it could be with anyone. It wasn’t the neighbors that worried him, or the Guard, either. It was the Dark. It had been in his wife’s mind and thought Alexis was helpless with a firearm. If she ever faced one of the infected again, he wanted it to think she was helpless.
Huffing, Alexis’s lips thinned. “I did it before. I’ll do it again.” She raised the pistol, but once again was standing too straight.
“You’re getting tired,” Alaric said. “The phaser pistol is too heavy and too big for your hands.” Alexis was a tall woman—Sebastian was centis shorter—but her hands were centis smaller.
“So, I’m a lost cause?” she sneered, though the way she ducked her head, he knew her mood was directed toward herself.
He kept his voice gentle. “No, you’ve been using the wrong weapons.”
She scowled at him.
“You were worried that if something happened to one of your guards, you wouldn’t be able to operate their weapons. Now you know how to.” She had insisted on coming out to the farm to learn, away from polite society, but unless they came here more often, she’d never get stronger and improve…and he doubted she’d come here more often. This was only their second visit in their entire marriage, and Alexis was embarrassed to be out here for such an unladylike reason.
Before they’d come, she’d asked him, “What will your mother think if she knew you were teaching me how to fire a pistol?”
“That a real woman fires a shotgun,” Alaric had responded, not even joking.
A few paces behind Alexis was a large boulder where his Guard issue tactical bag sat next to her picnic basket. Heading toward it, he gestured. “Come here. I’ve got something else for you.”
Unzipping a smaller compartment on the bag, he laid it open for Alexis to inspect. Raising an eyebrow, she pulled out a magazine. “It’s filled with bullets, not phase-gel.”
Taking the magazine from her, Alaric nodded. “Seven rounds that will always be ready to fire in an instant and never need to be charged. The cartridges are armor busting—that doesn’t mean that a round is lethal to someone wearing the sort of armor Sebastian has on—but it will damage the interior latticework. Four bullets in a diamond pattern will be lethal at twenty meters.” He spoke confidently even as he worried that in a high stress situation, she wouldn’t be able to hit a target twenty meters away. Especially if she didn’t practice. Hope she’s closer if it does happen, he told himself. Hope it doesn’t happen at all.
Alexis’s fingers drifted over four grips in the case. “These are all the same part.”
“They’re different sizes,” Alaric said. “Find the one that is most comfortable.”
Alexis picked them up and tried each in turn. When she had selected one, Alaric said, “Put the re
st of it together.”
He’d given her the pistol and rifle disassembled, too, and given her the same order. He’d done the same with Sebastian when teaching him to shoot with his father’s old pistol. Alaric liked knowing how things worked; figuring out how to piece things together was the best way to do that. Sebastian had protested. Alexis hadn’t. She looked at all the pieces carefully, taking them out of their compartments, turning them around in her hand, and then putting them back just as carefully before moving on to the next piece. It wasn’t until she’d looked at all the parts that she even attempted to assemble the weapon. When she did, she did it amazingly quickly, as though she’d done it many times before.
“Very good,” Alaric said. “It’s biometrically activated once it’s been imprinted to you.”
Alexis raised an eyebrow. “I thought it doesn’t need electricity?”
“It doesn’t…or rather, the amount it uses is so small that the motion you expend pulling it from your skirts is enough to charge it and read your handprint. We’ll make sure it’s the right size first, though.”
Alexis’s lips parted. “Pull it from my skirts?”
She had said she didn’t want a weapon of her own; she didn’t want a firearm in the house where the boys could get at it. But how realistic was it in an emergency that she’d be able to grab a weapon from a downed man? If the man was down, he was in the line of fire. He decided not to argue the point for the time being.
