The Defiant

by C. Gockel

  The matron cleared her throat. “I asked you to fetch my shawl.”

  Volka blinked. She smiled as sweetly as she could at the matron. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m not the coat check.” And would not be able to find her shawl if she tried. The chip was biometrically activated. Only the matron before her and the coat check “girl”—actually a sixty-one-year-old intelligence officer who looked twenty-two—could use it. Unnecessarily complicated in Volka’s opinion, paper slips worked fine. Gesturing toward the coat check girl in the foyer, Volka said, “If you’d just hand your chip to Ms. Chang, I’m sure she’ll help you.”

  The matron’s jaw dropped open. “Well, I never…Talking back to me?”

  It was what Volka had expected, but her ears flicked involuntarily in annoyance.

  The matron’s eyes got wider. “Such impertinence, those ears of yours should be flat against your head!”

  A few months ago, they probably would have folded submissively. Had everything that had happened changed her so deeply, or was she just too furious for self-preservation?

  With a “hmph,” the matron stalked over to Chang. A cloud that reeked of dissipated arousal and Sixty’s saliva followed her.

  Volka’s nostrils flared. It was the first public event since they’d arrived, a meet-and-greet for Luddeccea’s First Families, and Sixty was already after “maintenance!” Hands balling into fists, nails biting her palms, she stormed off to find her android partner. She couldn’t use Bracelet to call him because there were ether jammers directed at the embassy. Poor Bracelet had been reduced to a pretty watch.

  She shook her head. The embassy was having enough problems without Sixty’s potentially interstellar incident-inducing antics. None of the embassy’s staff had been issued travel permits yet. They were prisoners within the mansion’s grounds. Nor was anyone but Luddeccean elite preselected by the government allowed to visit. Granted, it didn’t really interfere with their stated mission—improving relations and facilitating strategic cooperation between the Luddecceans and the Galactic Republic—but it did hurt their unofficial mission: recruiting female weere to help the Republic protect its settlements.

  Carl’s quantum wave surfing abilities could let her know where Sixty was in such a confined area. Reaching out with her mind and heart, she said, “Carl, where is Sixty?”

  There was no answer.

  She tried again.

  And again, there was no answer.

  Her heart rate sped up. Carl wasn’t allowed to use his necklace to speak in front of Luddecceans—even when the jammers weren’t on. The Luddeccean government hadn’t told the populace that werfles and cats were sometimes self-aware, sentient creatures. Whenever someone who wasn’t authorized to know began to suspect, The One nudged the idea out of their mind. Volka understood—she really did—the populace was superstitious. Letting The One’s possession of werfles and cats be known could incite another purge of the creatures. There were members of The One who wanted all humans exterminated from the planet, and such a purge would serve as perfect justification. Carl wasn’t one of those, and now he was missing. Her personal fondness of the often-arrogant little curmudgeon aside, without Carl, the worst impulses of The One might not be curbed. Weaving through the guests, ignored by all the Luddecceans, her stomach sank.

  She drew to a halt. Before her was an intimidating throng of Luddecceans in long dresses and tunics over trousers, and Galacticans in clothing that was modest and “culturally appropriate” despite exotic glowing textiles and unusual asymmetric cuts. The event was winding down, but she still caught the scents of the appetizers being whisked about by Galactican intelligence officers wearing the simple black uniforms of waiters. She swallowed, her hair rising. There was no sign of the ambassador or Carl, who’d been parked on his shoulder this evening, because “No offense, Volka, but he’s taller and provides a better view.” Her heart rate sped up, she felt Sundancer’s presence, and the scene before her was replaced with a vision of a distant star, throbbing slightly.

  Volka’s starship friend was worried about her—Volka was sure of it. Taking a deep breath, Volka imagined Carl standing on his hindmost paw pairs, whiskers twitching, and then she let him fade away. Would it be enough to convey, I don’t know where he is; he could be hurt?

  The star vanished and was replaced by an image of Carl in the bay window of the embassy’s second floor. He lay on his back. His body rigid and stretched out, his little legs all sagging and lifeless. The vision vanished a heartbeat later.

  With a cry, Volka spun and took off at a run to the stairs. Her heart pounding in her ears was louder than the swirling conversation that changed to “What is wrong with that weere?” At the top of the landing, she dashed into the ambassador’s study without knocking on one of the few real doors, ran past the ambassador, the Archbishop Sato in his wheelchair, and the white werfle Isssh on his lap, directly to the window. There was Carl, just as Sundancer had projected. Body rigid, limbs akimbo.

  Volka gasped, “He’s—”

  An inelegant snort from Carl interrupted her. It was followed by a snore so loud it risked making the wallpaper curl. Ears flattening protectively, Volka turned away.

  Isssh’s thoughts intruded in her mind. “Would you please roll him over? That is so annoying.”

  Volka gently poked Carl, rolling him onto his side. The snoring stopped. He smacked his lips and flexed his claws, but he didn’t wake. She considered poking him again to wake him up and find out where Sixty was, but he did need sleep—sixteen hours a day of it. If she woke him, he’d spend a half hour being more cantankerous than usual; she could probably find Sixty in that time. Rolling her eyes, she almost laughed at her misunderstanding of Sundancer’s reply, but then her ears flattened in mortification. What must the ambassador and the archbishop think of her erratic behavior?

  “Oh, thank you, Volka,” said the archbishop, interrupting her thoughts. “I wasn’t sure if his subconscious would remember me since it is a function of his current body and not part of the wave.”

  Volka blinked. She was not sure what that meant.

  “Yes, thank you,” said the ambassador. “We were afraid he would bite us if we touched him.” The ambassador turned to the archbishop. “Weere hearing is really exemplary.”

  “I suspect the whole embassy heard Carl,” said the archbishop, pushing his glasses up his nose.

  They both chuckled, and then looked at Volka. Expectantly. But she wasn’t tired enough to read human thoughts at the moment.

  Isssh’s white fur rose, and his mind touched hers. “Do you mind? They have important matters to discuss.”

  Volka narrowed her eyes at the white werfle. He probably knew why she was here with his mind reading.

  “Of course I know why you are here,” Isssh said. “You insult me by even supposing I might not.”

  He could tell her where Sixty was.

  “But I won’t,” said Isssh. “It wouldn’t help your mastering of the wave.”

  Volka’s nostrils flared. To the archbishop and ambassador, Volka said, “Excuse me, I’ll leave now,” and left the room, closing the door behind her and reaching out to Sundancer for Sixty’s location this time.

  A few minutes later, she found him in the kitchen behind an immense table, laden with a few remaining platters. Around him were intelligence officers wearing the white uniformed guise of kitchen staff. Sixty smiled at Volka as though nothing was wrong. “I saved some carnivorous options for you,” he said.

  He smelled like the woman seeking the coat check. Her hair rose, and her nostrils twitched.

  One of his eyes narrowed, the other widened, and he tilted his head. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  None of the kitchen staff acted as though they had heard. A waiter entered the kitchen, picked up one of the few remaining trays, and left. They were all intelligence though, many with hearing augmented to be as acute as Volka’s own. They also were probably recording everything they saw and heard at this event.

&
nbsp; “We need to talk,” she said.

  Nodding at her, his expression became serious. “Agreed.”

  She pointed at the door. “Privately.”

  Smirking, he replied, “I’m always up for private time with you, Volka!”

  She glared.

  His smirk dropped. “Even though ummm...it wouldn’t be the sort of private time that would involve my core programming.” Wincing, he added, “Sorry about that. The request triggered a pre-programmed loop.”

  One of the intelligence officers snorted. A few others shook their heads. When they’d first arrived, and Volka had been exhausted from the day cycle difference between New Prime and the asteroid, she’d heard their thoughts about Sixty’s presence at the embassy. None of them thought he belonged. They didn’t think much more of her, either. They all had computers installed in their temples, and even without access to the ethernet, they could perform calculations in milliseconds, had access to encyclopedias worth of knowledge, and had holo recorders behind their eyes. More than that, although none of them had children, none were younger than fifty. They all had advanced degrees from elite universities and combat and espionage training. They saw her as not much more than a child—a simple child.

  Taking off his apron and coming over to her, he whispered, “And I do agree, we need privacy.”

  As much as she was furious at Sixty, she also felt a sense of solidarity with him. She sighed. He looked like himself…achingly perfect. How could the matron resist? But Sixty and Volka couldn’t mess this up. For the sake of the galaxy, and, heaven help her, their own honor, she would make this right.

  6T9 wasn’t sure what Volka needed to talk about, but he had had a productive evening, one that might solve the embassy’s most pressing problems—getting access to the rest of the planet. He desperately wanted to share his triumph with someone.

  Night pterys were calling as they stepped out of the back door of the embassy. It was a sound that he’d been familiar with even before he got his Q-comm. It sent a query that returned a cascade of pleasant, related data—memories of his time with Eliza. The memories overlaid the real world as they crossed what was supposed to have been a modern Galactican garden. It couldn’t be used for that purpose, however, because it was being used by Sundancer. After the events in New Grande on S5O4, Sundancer was reluctant to leave them alone. It had caused a great deal of diplomatic wrangling, but eventually the ship was allowed to hover out back on the condition that priests and Guard engineers could come aboard. They’d poked, scanned, and prodded the ship the same way the Galactican scientists and engineers had. 6T9 doubted that they’d learned any more. They’d also tried to leave bugs aboard the ship, nearly microscopic things that 6T9 wouldn’t have thought Luddecceans were capable of. According to Carl, Archbishop Sato had warned his compatriots against it but had been ignored. When the priests had left, Sundancer had “spit” the things back out at the Luddecceans, and Carl had laughed so hard he’d curled himself into a ball. “The funniest thing about it,” he’d explained to Volka, Starcrest, and 6T9 when he’d recovered, “was that Sundancer was trying to be helpful.”

  Starcrest hadn’t been amused that The One hadn’t told the Republic about the attempted surveillance before the ship’s “return” of the devices. Carl had countered, “Well, you’re bugging up the Luddeccean embassy on Earth, too. Should we tell them?” and the matter had been dropped.

  With the ship, and the fact that the garden had been wild for over a century, the only landscaping that had been done was to clear out the garbage that had accumulated. The cleanup had revealed drab, dull-gray ground cover that was typical in Luddeccean subtropics. A garden filled with “flagrant and fragrant” sex organs would have been nice, but the ship gave the members of the embassy a surveillance free zone, and it partially hid the hastily constructed concrete wall erected around the embassy grounds, ostensibly for their protection. There were fully armed Luddeccean Guardsmen stationed every ten meters outside the barrier. On the inside, there were nearly as many Galactican Marines wearing full combat envirosuits and fully armed. Two of the Marines nodded grimly at Volka and 6T9 as they passed.

  Despite their quarantine, the wall, and the Guardsmen stationed outside of it, Starcrest seemed to think things were progressing well. 6T9 hadn’t shared the same optimism...until tonight. He smiled to himself and almost broke into a whistle.

  Volka reached Sundancer and ran the tips of her fingers along the ship’s hull. In her fingers’ path, the pearlescent ship sparkled. It matched the dress she was wearing, an ankle length ivory sheath that made her appear even smaller and more delicate than usual. Halting, Volka closed her eyes and the iris opening appeared beneath Sundancer’s keel. 6T9 stopped just behind Volka and idly placed a hand on her back, just to say, “I’m here,” of course.

  Flicking her ears, Volka shifted away from his touch and rubbed her temple. 6T9 tilted his head in concern. Did she have a headache? Climax was good for headaches; he wished he could help her. His circuits had barely sparked with that thought when Sundancer sank around them. Volka and 6T9 stepped up into the ship, and the iris opening closed. Before he could say, “I think I’ve helped our cause,” Volka spun to him. “Sixty, how could you?”

  His Q-comm briefly stuttered. “How could I what?”

  “You know what!” Volka waved her hands.

  6T9 squinted. He could see fine. It was just a preprogrammed emotional expression of confusion that was frankly illogical in this circumstance. How could squinting possibly elucidate—

  Smacking her palm against her forehead, Volka muttered, “Do I have to spell it out?”

  Q-comm sparking, Sixty grinned. “That would take an inordinate amount of time. Why not just say it?”

  Raising her hands toward the ceiling, Volka groaned. “This is our first official event and you had sexual relations with a guest!”

  6T9’s eyes went wide in shock. That was part of what he wanted to tell her. However... “How did you know about that?”

  “You said you wouldn’t have sex while you were here!” Volka exclaimed.

  It had been a long time since she’d gone prudish on him. The static of annoyance flared beneath his skin. “No, I only said I didn’t need to.”

  “What if she’d seen the duct tape wrapping on your shoulder? Are you trying to get yourself slagged?” Volka cried.

  The static cooled. She was worried about him, not being prudish. He touched his shoulder and brushed the ridges of tape. Volka herself had cut the segments of the sticky stuff and arranged it so neatly it looked like a sleek, modern version of a pauldron, the shoulder piece of medieval armor. He didn’t ever want synth skin to replace it. “No, of course I’m not trying to get myself slagged, and of course I kept my shirt on. I have a Q-comm!”

  Volka put her head in her hands. “How could you, Sixty?”

  He was instantly annoyed again. So much doubt of his abilities. “Oh, ye of little faith,” he muttered.

  Volka reeled back, eyes wide.

  Sixty smiled tightly. “Mrs. Tudor came back to the kitchen to tell me how wonderful the food was during our busiest time. I stepped into the butler’s pantry with her. Thanking her, I took her hand and kissed it, and then she told me what a handsome young man I was. Not letting go of her hand, I corrected her, informing her that I am in fact older than her, and that I’m also not particularly handsome.”

  Volka's eyes narrowed.

  Putting a hand to his chest, he conceded the point. “All right, I am handsome. But also, boring looking. I told her that like most everyone in the Republic, I look stereotypically young and attractive. There is so much more variety in older faces.” His eidetic memory began replaying the lines around Stella Tudor’s eyes, the creases on her upper lips so fine they looked like hairs, the soft skin of her waist, the crepe lines of her neck. “I told her to me she was more exotically beautiful than the augmented humans I’m accustomed to. She told me she couldn’t believe me so…” He licked his lips. “I proved t
o her she was wrong.”

  Flattening her ears, Volka groaned. “Stella Tudor…do you realize what you’ve done?”

  “I’ve convinced the interim premier’s widowed mother that we should be granted passes to leave this compound. Stella is on the case!” And that was what he’d really wanted to tell her.

  Volka’s ears didn’t perk. “Sixty, you can’t have a relationship with her.”

  The familiar static rose beneath his skin. “Why not? As long as it is consensual—”

  Dropping her hand, Volka’s voice rose to the level of a shout. “Do you know how many weere men have thought they were in consensual relationships with human women only to be accused of rape when the affair was found out?”

  6T9 drew back. “Of course I don’t know. That information isn’t something that would be publicly available.” As soon as he said it though, he wondered if he might have access to it. He had been given a chip pre-mission with data scanned from Luddeccean newspapers for the last hundred years. He accessed the files and started running queries. Grainy black and white photos and text played before his eyes.

  Behind the veil of data, Volka scrunched her eyes shut, and her ears flattened. “Sixty…you can’t do this.”

  He began filtering his initial dataset of alleged weere rapists with declarations of innocence.

  “...For your sake and the sake of the mission.”

  “It happens at least once a year…” 6T9 said, brow furrowing.

  Volka’s ears came forward.

  “Rape accusations by human women against weere proclaiming themselves innocent,” 6T9 said, scanning the data. “They could be guilty.” Sociopaths were not averse to rape or lying.