by Wil McCarthy
Roland Hanlin looked up reluctantly. “It's a tragedy,” he said.
“Once again?” Marshe said. Her tone indicated, somehow, that Roland was not finished speaking, that his point had not yet been made but soon would be.
“Tragedy,” the man repeated. “Like those old holies they used to watch.”
“You mean there isn't a lesson buried in here? Just a sad story?”
Roland shrugged.
“Waisters can't swim,” Josev offered, his tone suddenly light and humorous.
“Okay,” said Marshe. “That's certainly implied in the text. At least, Dogs and Workers can't swim. When they're, uh, in the Place-of-Water.”
“Place-of-Water must mean 'ocean',” said Sipho. “Or maybe the name of a particular ocean. The water is rough enough to smash bodies against the rocks, yes? And the Drones ate sea creatures.”
“This is a sludgy translation,” Josev said.
Ken looked up at Marshe. “The Drones disobeyed their Queen. They went... lung diving or something. Lobster hunting. And the Workers and Dog followed them into the water? No, that doesn't make any sense.”
“It was a really ugly divorce,” Josev suggested.
“Well,” said Marshe, “It was obviously an argument of some kind. Maybe the Queen warned her people about the undertow or something, and they went swimming anyway? Tide pulled them out onto a reef?”
“The Six hardly seems like a monolithic structure,” Sipho said. “It sounds as if the Drones are just barely held in check.”
Marshe was frowning behind her mask. “I think Josev is right. Something is wrong with this translation.”
“Can we get raw downloads in the future?” Sipho asked.
“No. We weren't really even supposed to get this. I've arranged for something better, though: two days from now, we will speak with an actual Waister.”
Ken's skin went cold, and tiny bumps began to form on it, pushing his hairs erect with a chilly, tingling sensation. An actual Waister?
Indigo blood on his hands, his arms. Fading to white as he watched.
“I thought they were all frozen,” he said quietly.
“Yes. Some friends of mine are going to thaw one out for us.”
“Aren't they all radiation-terminal?” Josev protested.
“Yes,” Marshe said. “We'll be killing it by talking to it.”
“Oh. How many prisoners have we got?”
Marshe smiled. “Classified, Josev. Sorry.”
Ken shuddered. Killing it by talking to it. He felt no sympathy for the Waister prisoners, no empathy for the suffering they must endure, but... Hadn't there been enough killing already? Would he have to keep on pulling triggers, as long as he lived?
“Jonson,” Marshe said, “You look distressed. You will interrogate the prisoner with us. Get used to the idea.”
No mercy, Ken's conscience murmured. No mercy, no mercy.
He looked the captain in the eye, and nodded.
~~~
It was a Worker beneath the tent of clear, shiny plastic. Marshe had wanted a Queen, but this was all the vivisectionists could spare.
Ken felt hollow inside. The creature looked pathetic, shriveled upon its couch. The twisted body which had so frightened him ten weeks before now looked silly and sad, like a child's balloon-animal left too long in the sun.
“...initiated supportive therapy,” one of the technicians was saying, “pumping electrolytes and so forth, but it won't last too long. Eventually we hope to perform cellular surgery, reverse as much of the damage as we can, but that won't be possible for quite a while. The nucleic acids are very strange, and the enzymes which—”
“Later,” Marshe said, cutting the man off. “Don't waste time right now.” She leaned in over the shriveled Worker. “#You will-speak towards I/We#”
The Waister shook for a second or two, its body making wet noises.
“#You will-speak towards I/We#” Marshe said again, more loudly. There was anger in her synthetic voice, Ken thought. Anger and frustration and, buried but still visible in outline, the desire to hurt. Talbott betrayed not a trace of human tenderness.
“#I will-speak will-speak#” The Waister agreed, very faintly.
“#You/you experience difficulty#” Marshe suggested, “#Resulting-from fear resulting-from I/We#”
“#No#”
“#Describe you/your sensation/experience#”
The Waister shuddered a little. “#I/I cold-am Hungry-am Thirsty-am#”
“#You/you experience fear#” Marshe said.
“#To-a-slight-degree#” Said the alien.
Marshe sneered. “#You/your people attack I/We people resulting-from fear#
“#No#”
“No?” Marshe said, in Standard. “Stupid wretch.”
“#What cause you/your people attack I/We people#” She hissed.
Ken thought there was something odd in her phrasing, not just in that sentence but in many of her remarks. Perhaps the creature could not understand her?
But it answered: “#Newness newness You/your people new-are I/We people not-new-are Where is I/My Queen#”
“#You/your Queen is I/We/My thing-of-dismantling You/your Drones are-dead You/your Dog is I/We/My thing-of-dismantling#” Marshe said. Somehow, she managed to project a cruel tone through the voder.
“Marshe,” Ken said, unable to help himself. “Be professional. Please.”
The captain looked back at him, sharply. Her eyes glittered like dark jewels.
“Please,” he repeated, meeting her gaze.
She turned back to the Waister and spoke again. “#What cause you/your people attack newness#”
“#There not-is inside-of-me understanding#” The creature replied. Its voice was a bubbling whisper that sounded to Ken like the rattle of death. The sound of air being forced through dying speech-organs.
“#You/your people attack newness#” Marshe said angrily.
“#Why do you resist#” The alien asked. “#You are like Stupid-lings Long-ago Stupid-lings They fought so hard They fought so long They#” The voice trailed away.
Marshe leaned up, looked back at Ken, at Josev and Sipho and Roland. Her eyes now registered fear. “#Who/what are Stupid-lings#” She asked the creature, while her eyes hunted back toward Ken.
The Waister exhaled, but did not speak.
Marshe whirled on it. “#WHO/WHAT ARE STUPID-LINGS#”
“#Long-ago Long-ago” the Waister said, very quietly. “#They were so stupid Stubborn Strong We need-must did-cause death They never gave up We need-must did-cause all Stupid-lings of death#”
Ken's vision started to gray around the edges. His knees felt weak. The stupid ones never surrendered, the Worker had meant. We had to kill them all.
“Names of God,” Josev whispered.
Roland Hanlin made an odd gesture with his hands.
“What cause#” Marshe asked the Waister. The voder's electronic voice was steady, but Ken could see the captain's hands quivering.
The Waister said nothing.
There was a tone, a quiet humming that almost merged with the exobiology lab's background noise. Something blurred, shifted in the wall displays behind the tent.
“It's lost consciousness,” the technician said, casually.
“Wake it back up,” Marshe told him without turning around.
Ken watched the detachment melt from the man's face, watched scientific curiosity give way to fear of darkness. “What did it say?” He asked.
“Wake it up!” Marshe shouted.
“What...” the man said. “Right. Okay.”
He moved to the wall, pressed an amber polygon that blinked against the darkness of the panel. More polygons appeared, in various colors, and he pressed several of these.
PongPong! PongPong! The new sound seemed to shatter its way out of the panel.
“Shit!” The man swore. Now his hands were shaking as well, Ken saw.
“What happened?” Marshe demanded.
“Neural
seizure,” the technician said. “Shit. You stinking bastard, wake up!”
PONGPONG! Said the data panel. Then, HUMMMMMMMM...
The technician pounded the panel with his fist. “God damn it!” He screamed. “It's dead. It had a few good hours left in it, but somehow it's dead. What did you say to it?”
Marshe turned toward the man. “Get us another one.”
“I can't.”
“Do it.”
“Captain, I can't. They're all assigned to different projects. What happened here, what did you find out?”
“We're all going to die,” Marshe told him. “That's what we found out. They're going to stamp us out like they did all their other victims.”
“Captain?”
“God damn it,” Marshe said, pulling the voder mask off her mouth. Her eyes, suddenly, looked red and moist and shamelessly angry. “The last race they fought never surrendered. They had to kill them all.”
Marshe Talbott tensed, shoulders tight, arms straight at her sides. Her jaw clenched and quivered. “GOD DAMN IT!” She bellowed through her teeth, turning on the plastic tent, slamming a fist down on the body within it. The clear plastic collapsed. The Waister made a wet, meaty sound beneath her hand.
“God damn it,” she said again, more quietly. Her hand slipped off the plastic that wrapped the Waister's body.
Ken wanted to say something to her. Calm down, perhaps? It's all right?
No.
Ken turned away instead, and closed his eyes. It was not all right, would not be all right ever again. Oh God, he thought. Oh God, oh God.
Chapter Nine
Colonel Jhee strode into the assimilation chamber with murder in his eyes. “Speak no further,” He'd said over the holie link, his voice ringing with anger. “I will be with you in fifteen minutes.”
And now, here he was. And seeing the colonel's look, Ken feared for Marshe.
“Be seated, Captain Talbott,” the colonel said, pointing at a chair.
Marshe remained standing. “Colonel, this is very important. We've uncovered evidence that the Waisters have driven at least one other race—”
“Speak no further!” The colonel snapped, a drop of spittle flying from his lips. “That fact is known to us, and is considered Most Secret! You have no authority to pry into these matters!”
“You knew?” Marshe said.
“Of course we knew! And now, without my authorization, you've wasted the life of a valuable prisoner simply to confirm it. Captain, your charge number is hereby revoked. Paint, voice modules, exomedical services... you've overrun your budget already, and by a very wide margin. I understand you've even ordered sun-glasses!”
Marshe sighed. “They're spectrum spreaders, Colonel, with truncated IR. To help us see like the Waisters do.”
“I don't care what they are,” Jhee said, more quietly. He pointed at the chair again. “Sit down, Captain. Let me explain some difficult truths for you.”
Ken could see Marshe raging inwardly, wishing, perhaps, that she could push this tiny man up against a bulkhead and punch him hard. But she sat. Jhee was her commanding officer, after all, and Marshe Talbott new her job.
The colonel smoothed his hair back. Paused. “This project is not the center of the war, not even the center of my war. My budget is fixed, and thinly spread across a whole spectrum of research. Even so, whether you realize it or not, in all the UAS I am your only protector. And yet you trample my garden without regret.
“If you understood the effects...The resources you have diverted come directly from my other projects, regardless of their merit. Your actions may well rob us of the answers we need to survive. This is not merely negligent, madam. I am slightly tempted to courtmartial you for treason, but I hardly think that would help matters. Shall we log it as a gross oversight?”
What was this? Treason, did he say? Courtmartial? Ken sat up a little straighter. Even “gross oversight” was a serious accusation.
“Don't you think you're overreacting?” Marshe asked, her voice tight.
“No,” the colonel said. “For the moment, all I can do is kill your charge number. But if things go badly in the near future, there will be a formal inquiry. I will not be defending you, Captain.”
No, Ken wanted to say. You'll be defending your own sorry ass. There had been a few officers like Jhee in the marine corps, too, tight-fisted pebble counters all. The troops, Ken included, had spent long hours planning “accidents” for them. All in fun, of course, but Ken doubted any of those officers had survived the Flyswatter operation. A slow response, a hint of delay... Murder was easy in a combat zone.
“Colonel Jhee,” Captain Talbott said. “I apologize for my unauthorized charges, and I accept full responsibility for the consequences. The other team members were not responsible.”
“Not true,” Ken said. He felt a little dizzy as he spoke, sensing that he had stepped off a precipice and faced a fall of unknown distance.
“Shut it, Ken,” Josev hissed.
Ken shook his head. It was unthinkable that the Queen should be threatened and affronted in this way, without the defense of her Drones. “Most of those charges were my idea,” he said to the colonel. “And I stand by them.”
“Jonson,” Marshe said, her tone both angry and grateful. “Keep out of this. I'm in charge of this project. The responsibility begins and ends with me.”
Ken lifted his voder, pressed it over his mouth like an oxygen mask. “#I am Drone of Queen I will-fight#”
Colonel Jhee looked startled.
“Jonson,” Marshe warned.
“#I am Drone of Queen#” Ken repeated, staring now into the colonel's eyes.
Jhee returned the glare, his eyes narrowing. “What are you saying?” He demanded.
Ken lowered the voder, and flashed a feral grin. “I am Drone of Queen,” he said. He felt the grin faltering, becoming misshapen as his lips twitched out the words. “I will defend my Queen as well as I can. As long as I live. Colonel.”
“Sludging hell, Jonson,” Josev whispered loudly, his expression stunned and fearful.
But Jhee was smiling faintly when Ken looked back at him. Smiling at Marshe. “Your crewman is insane,” he said.
“No sir,” Ken corrected. “I am your Aggressor.”
“Leave the room, please, Jonson,” Marshe said. Her voice betrayed simple anger, nothing more.
Ken got to his feet.
“Stay, Corporal,” the colonel said. “I'm leaving.” He turned to Marshe. “Against my better judgement, I'm granting you authority to proceed with your tactical analysis. You've killed valuable programs, but General Voorhis has already requested a copy of your next report. Produce it for me, and keep your crewmen in line.”
“Sir,” Marshe said.
The colonel turned, and left.
When he was gone, Marshe whirled on Ken, taking two giant strides forward. “Explain yourself, mister!” She shouted in his face.
“Doing my job, Queen!” Ken yelled back in the same tone.
“God's names, Jonson,” Josev said. “You're completely out the lock. You can't talk to a colonel that way, even if you are a clodging war hero!”
“Let him be.”
The room fell silent. Ken looked at Roland Hanlin. So, it seemed, did everyone else.
“Let him be,” Hanlin said again. “He's the only one really try to make this project work.”
Again, the room was quiet for a long moment.
“Kenneth,” Marshe said, breaking the silence. “Please don't speak to the colonel that way in the future.”
“Yes ma'am,” Ken replied.
“Don't you 'yes ma'am' me,” she said, getting in his face again. “This is serious. You could be shot for that.”
“I'm aware of that, Marshe,” Ken said. “I'm not stupid. We have to know we're right, if we want that guy to listen to us.”
“Yelling at him in Waister is not going to help, chum,” Josev muttered. “You're digging our tomb when you do that.”
“Why don't I believe him?” Marshe asked the walls of the chamber, no amusement in her voice.
~~~
Marshe turned weightlessly from the viewport. Her features were composed, but the red, puffy look to her eyes made Ken wonder if she'd been crying.
“Jonson,” she said.
“Call me Ken.”
Her lips curled briefly into a smile. Or a snarl. “Ken. Okay. Call me Marshe?”
“Okay.”
“I don't like 'Queen' any more. I don't like the sound of it.”
“I'll call you Marshe.”
Behind her, behind the thick glass of the window, Saturn was a tiny ball of caramel. The jewel of Sol system. Ken couldn't see its rings at all.
Marshe started rubbing her hands together, as if she were cold. She looked at Ken with sorrowful eyes. “We're not going to make it, are we?” She said. “The Waisters are too strong and they'll never give up. We aren't going to win.”
Ken shook his head. No, they weren't going to win. Had she really thought otherwise?
“Why are we working so hard?” She asked.
Ken shrugged, sensing that the question was rhetorical, that no answer he could give would be helpful to her.
“Why,” she continued, “Don't we just find a way to surrender? We can all give a hundred and ten percent to the war effort, with no better result than all of us getting killed. What's the point?”
“Don't worry about it,” Ken said. “We're just gears, Marshe. Just ants in the hive. Let the commanders worry about strategy.”
“Spoken like a marine,” she said, bitterly.
“There's nothing we can do to change the situation,” Ken told her. “Just act out your little part for as long as you can.”
She peered at him. “And then?”
He shrugged again. “Die well, I guess. God is watching.”
Marshe seemed to have no reply for that.
“Maybe we can buy time for Barnarde,” he said, feeling he should offer her some comfort.
Barnarde was almost six light years away, still far from the Waister armadas. There was still time for deus ex machina, the intervening hand of God, to save the people there, though Ken didn't think it was likely.
